


Grow To Be

by Sororising



Series: Time that is Given [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern: No Powers, Coming Out, Dysphoria, Family Feels, Fluff and Angst, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, Mental Health Issues, Non-Binary Bucky, Other, Racism, Self-Discovery, Trans Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-02
Updated: 2016-11-20
Packaged: 2018-08-12 15:38:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 110,954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7939999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sororising/pseuds/Sororising
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam flops back down onto the bed, shoving a few of the pillows behind his head and upper back - there’s way too many for one bed; if you multiply that by thirty bedrooms there must be -</p><p>“I can’t do math when I’m drunk,” he says mournfully. “Bucky, come here and help me do math.”</p><p>Bucky lets out a small laugh. “Bet you say that to all the girls.”</p><p>Sam doesn’t know how to unpick that sentence. He isn’t even going to bother trying; he just waves his arm around in Bucky’s general direction, hoping that he’ll make contact eventually.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you like this story; it is very close to my heart. Feedback and concrit are very very welcome. 
> 
> **Edited Jan 2017 to add: Tagging system for this series has been updated. Originally in this fic I tagged every warning, no matter how minor, but if I do that for the sequels there will be about 30 complex tags for a couple fics. So: I have changed my method and tagged the ones that occur throughout the entire story in the main summary section, and have updated all chapter notes to reflect any additional chapter-specific warnings, because I didn't want to use a completely different system for fics in the same series. If you want a tag added please just ask, I'm always more than happy to tweak again!
> 
> Title comes from this quote:
> 
> "It matter not what someone is born, but what they grow to be."  
> \- J. K. Rowling, _Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire_  
> 

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You okay?” Sam asks, and fuck, that’s the face Sam gets when he’s honestly worried about someone.
> 
> “Fine,” Bucky mutters, then instantly feels bad. They like Sam - maybe a little too much, but they’re not going to think about that right now - and he’d only been trying to help.
> 
> “Tired,” they add before Sam can call them out on their bullshit answer. It’s true, anyway; it’s not like they got much sleep last night after - well, after.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter-specific warning: vague mention of potential child abuse.

* * *

It’s been another nothing-day. Bucky’s been having a few of them in a row lately, but something always happens to break the streak - so far, at least - so they aren’t going to get too worried about it just yet.

Not that they could, really, even if they wanted to. Nothing-days don’t come along with a whole lot of emotions, and any worry that might be wanting to break its way through to the surface of their brain is just going to have to wait for the vague sort of fog that’s covering it to lift.

Bucky finally decides that maybe eight times would be one time too many to rewatch the new Troye Sivan video, especially since they started crying, just a bit, the first time, and tears on nothing-days never lead anywhere good.

They click over to Tumblr instead, realise that it’s been twelve minutes since the last time they refreshed it and that doing it again is going to be very pointless, and decide to check Facebook before attempting to get a semi-decent amount of sleep.

Bucky can hear their mom’s voice as clearly as if she was standing in their doorway, instead of a few blocks away at one of her endless night-school classes. _Tomorrow’s a school-day,_ she’d say, _make sure your sisters are tucked in, and don’t you stay up too late, you hear me?_

Bucky’s been the man of the house ever since their dad fucked off a couple years ago, and they don’t know how to even begin to tell their mom that they aren’t a man at all, or a boy, not properly.

They roll their eyes as they scroll down Facebook, ignoring mundane posts from various classmates that they don’t really give a fuck about, but who it would be weird to delete. They can’t wait until school is over and they only have to interact with people they actually like.

Bucky stops as they see the name of one of their actual friends.

Sharon’s posted a very blurry picture of what looks like a tipped-over bottle of purple nail polish, with a figure in the background that Bucky recognises as Nat - from the red hair and the fact that no-one else in their friendship group would be able to do a handstand while balanced on a footstool.

 _“girls night in” turned into “we should be in a circus” lol sorry @ Mr & Mrs Hill_ is Sharon’s caption, and she’s tagged herself, Nat, Maria and Helen. 

Bucky feels a very small, completely irrational twinge when they read the words ‘girls night in.’

It’s not like they wanted to be invited, not really. They can’t paint their nails - maybe their toenails? No, not even that; fucking communal changing rooms. Someone like Steve, or Sam, would probably be able to get away with it, making a joke about breaking down gender stereotypes or just throwing out a casual ‘looks good, right?’ without thinking anything of it.

Bucky would just freeze up, they’re pretty sure, and whoever had pointed it out would immediately be able to sense a weakness. Not having a comeback in front of high school bullies was about as dumb as covering yourself in blood and going diving with sharks, and Bucky’s not doing so good on the whole talking thing these days.

They’d been a hell of a lot smoother back when they thought they were a guy, which is annoying. And also completely illogical, since only eight people in the world - nine, counting Bucky - know that they don’t exactly identify as male anymore. 

So in theory, they should be just as good at flirting and small talk as they used to be. But either figuring out the whole non-binary thing has made their anxiety levels way higher, or something else has, because more and more they find themself staying silent in social situations, or saying something that had felt like it would be perfectly normal until they hear it out loud, when it promptly sounds like the dumbest thing any person has ever said in the history of the universe.

Teenagers are allowed to be overdramatic, they’re pretty sure.

Bucky scrolls past a Cracked article on Chuck E. Cheese, sees the next post, and freezes.

It’s dated a couple of hours ago, and there’s no photo. It’s the kind of status Tony posts all the time, the little quotes from his day that have made Bucky seriously considering unfollowing him, especially since they were _there_ for half of the conversations and really don’t need to see them rehashed online.

Fuck, if only they had unfollowed Tony. Then they wouldn’t feel like there’s a weird hole in their chest, which, again, sounds dramatic but is actually a very accurate description.

It’s more than just a few words, which isn’t unusual. Bucky’s pretty sure that Tony, who was mercilessly bullied in middle school, posts these statuses every day so that his old bullies can see that he does have friends now. Which, alright, makes Bucky a bit more sympathetic towards the guy, but it still doesn’t mean they actually want to read the constant updates.

They’re finding it hard to have much sympathy right now, reading this.

**so this just happened:**

**Steven ‘don’t let the door hit my halo on the way out’ Rogers: “I’m just going to take out the garbage (because I am a suck-up and also an alien pretending to be human)”**

**Rhodey, light of my life but also a complete traitor: “make Stark do it, it’s his house”**

**Sam, definite traitor don’t let those eyelashes fool you: “I’m ninety percent sure Tony doesn’t even know where the garbage goes when it leaves the house” (screw you Wilson I know where the freaking yard is)**

**Me: i’m gonna build a robot that follows me around and cleans up after me and also that has facial recognition so it can shoot all of you assholes with its water-pistol arms**

**in other words we were supposed to be watching the game tonight and instead everyone is helping me build the best robot to ever exist, name suggestions welcome!!!**

There’s one comment, from Rhodey. All it says is ‘dummy,’ and it already has four likes.

Bucky’s chest feels very, very tight. Their heartbeat feels weird; not too fast exactly, but about a hundred times more noticeable than it usually is, drumming through their ears in a way that should probably be worrying. But they don’t have energy left to spare to worry about a potential heart attack right now, especially not on a nothing-day that’s just turned into something even worse

They stare at the screen for much too long, then hit refresh. There’s a new comment, below Rhodey’s, from Helen: “Maybe don’t give a presumably metal robot an arm that shoots water??! How are you beating me in physics, Stark, seriously.”

Bucky decides that now would be an excellent time to delete their Facebook. Or deactivate it, whatever, why does Facebook make it so hard to get rid of the thing?

Except - except they can’t do that, can they, because it’s fucking school tomorrow and they’re going to see everyone, and maybe no-one would notice for a few hours but then fucking Tony would try to tag Bucky in some idiotic post and then they’d all want to know why they got rid of it and - 

_Now_ their heartbeat is definitely speeding up. 

They slam their laptop shut, then don’t move for a second after they do, hoping the noise hadn’t woken up any of their sisters. 

After a few moments of undisturbed silence, Bucky decides to just switch the light off, go to bed, and pretend that they never saw either of the Facebook posts.

It doesn’t work even a little bit, unsurprisingly. They can’t get it out of their head. Boys night. Girls night. Them not even stuck in the middle of the two, that would have been a different kind of painful - instead, they’d not even been remembered at all.

A nothing-day for a nothing-person, Bucky thinks viciously to themself. The images dancing behind their eyelids, of their friends all having fun without them while they’re busy doing fuck-all like the pathetic loser they clearly are, start to feel unbearable. Maybe everyone’s mocking them behind their back - _such a loser, can you pretend they believed us when we said we were okay with that fucked-up trans thing_ \- oh, except they’d be saying _he,_ wouldn’t they, because it’s not like Bucky has any way to know whether anyone actually uses the pronouns they want when they aren’t there to hear it.

Fuck.

Bucky decides to give up on sleep for tonight, and opens their eyes on darkness.

* * *

At lunch the next day, Bucky is overly conscious of the fact that the tables in the canteen are designed to fit eight chairs. It’s never been an issue; there’s plenty of spare chairs stacked along one wall, and whoever arrives first at what’s been their claimed table since the second day of school this year always has the unofficial responsibility of grabbing another chair and sticking it at the end. 

It isn’t even Bucky sat in the spare chair; they, Rhodey and Maria had all been in math with Coulson before lunch, and had got out of class early. It’s Steve today, probably because he had gym last period and he insists on showering properly.

There’s no reason Bucky should be feeling out of place. 

It’s not like there’s any kind of divide between guys and girls, either, for them to feel excluded from. Sharon’s next to Steve, flicking through his sketchbook - Bucky knows it’ll be his class one, because they happen to know that Steve’s personal sketchbook contains more than a few pictures of Sharon, and there’s no way she could be looking through that without Steve’s face turning bright red. 

Maria is teasing Tony about his incurable - seriously, four years and still going strong - crush on Pepper Potts, who everyone in their year has already nailed down as the student most likely to take over the world.

Sam and Nat are arguing in what would probably look like a violent way to anyone that didn’t know about their weird dynamic - where they pretend to dislike each other but secretly their intense discussions are probably the highlight of both their days - and Bucky doesn’t bother to pay any more attention than that when they realise that today’s ‘topic of argumentation,’ as Sharon has christened the debates, is focused on which Discworld book is the best. Bucky’s kind of a nerd, sure, but nowhere near on the same level as Sam and Nat.

Rhodey and Helen aren’t actually having a conversation, even though they’re sat next to each other, because Helen is leaning back way too far in her chair so that she can talk to Betty Ross at the table behind her. From the few words Bucky manages to pick up and understand, they’re having a scary-sounding discussion about the ethical implications of human cloning. The level of detail in the rambling sentences makes them feel an unexpected moment of relief at the fact that their high school bio lab hasn’t been given any new funding for the past decade.

Rhodey is eating with one hand, steadying Helen’s chair with the other, and occasionally looking up to add in a brutal insight to Maria’s long list of reasons why Tony should maybe start to accept that ‘trying desperately to beat someone in every single AP subject’ isn’t actually a commonly recognised flirting technique.

 _You might be giving Pepper some competition in the taking-over-the-world thing,_ Bucky wants to say to Rhodey.

They don’t say anything, of course. Bucky’s been doing that a lot more than they used to over the past few months: coming up with a joke or some random comment in their head, and then second-guessing themself so much that by the time they actually decide to say it out loud the moment when it would have made sense is long gone.

These days, they mostly just don’t wonder if they should say whatever it is they’re thinking at all. The default answer their brain gives is usually a firm _no,_ anyway, so it’s getting easier to never really speak up at all.

Bucky’s friends have noticed them get quieter, which has given them more than a few confusing reactions. It’s nice of them to worry, of course it is, and it would have felt horrible if no-one at all had realised anything was different about them, but at the same time, well, they don’t know how to explain something they can’t even figure out themself, and having people focus on them just makes them feel horribly paranoid.

Coming out to everyone had been the scariest thing Bucky’s ever done. The only thing that could compare was coming out to _themself,_ finally admitting that the reason they kept re-reading every Tumblr post they could find on transgender issues wasn’t just out of pure interest, the way they’d been trying to tell themself.

Steve had been the first, of course. Not just because they’d known each other since they were kids, but because Bucky has always known that Steve will have their back no matter what. They love all their new friends - they don’t really think that anyone had been laughing at them in secret, not now that they’ve had a few hours of sleep - but Steve is different. The two of them know each other inside and out; Steve’s the only one of their friends who ever really met Bucky’s dad, and Bucky’s the only person - except for their families, of course - that remembers him as a tiny, stick-thin kid, always in and out of hospital but never failing to act like he was invincible.

That level of knowledge almost made it worse, in a way, to think about coming out to Steve. Someone who didn’t know them so well wouldn’t have the weight of expectation or history to colour their judgement, after all, and of course there was the small detail that a rejection from Steve would have crushed Bucky completely.

But, even despite all that, there had never been any other option for Bucky. Well. Except for telling the entire group together, and the thought of _that_ scenario had given them an honest-to-god panic attack.

They weren’t even sure if it counted as _coming out_ when all you did was shove your laptop at someone when it was open to a Tumblr description of what being non-binary was, mumbling _this is maybe kind of me don’t hate me,_ and then you very maturely hid under your pillow for the few seconds it took to read the post.

“Aw, Buck,” Steve had said, in his unfailingly too-kind voice. “That’s - can you stop hiding for a second? I love you, idiot.”

Steve was literally the only straight guy in the world who could look like a jock threw up on an underwear model and still say things like that to his male friends. 

Except Bucky wasn’t male. Which hadn’t bothered Steve for even a second, apparently, which was sort of - expected, really, because _Steve,_ but still. 

Bucky had been building this moment up in their head so much that having Steve react with nothing more than support had actually been tricky for them to properly get their head around, which was kind of sad.

“Should I use different pronouns for you?” had been the next question from Steve.

“Um,” Bucky had said, still in shock. “You don’t have to?”

“That wasn’t a no,” Steve had pointed out, which, okay, true.

“Pedant,” Bucky had said, because they weren’t going to resist the urge to mildly insult Steve. “But, um. Maybe they and them pronouns? When it’s just us?”

“Of course! Not that, y’know, I talk about you a whole lot in the third person when it’s us two. But I’ll start using them in my head. Sorry, I’ll probably mess up a lot at first.”

Steve had sounded so earnest that Bucky had finally come out from under the pillow, only to be greeted with a giant hug and the solemn promise that Steve was going to read everything he could get his hands on about transgender issues.

It had taken a few more weeks, but Bucky had eventually decided that they wanted to come out to the rest of the weird little friendship group that had sprung up around them over the last few years of high school. Steve had been there, of course, glaring at everyone with about the most threatening look he could muster - which wasn’t very intimidating at all, he should take some lessons from Nat - but it turned out that no glares were necessary for everyone there to accept Bucky for exactly who they were.

More or less.

There had been some confusion, and a few less-than-ideal remarks - mostly from Tony - but when Bucky had stumbled over the words _you can use they pronouns, if you want I mean,_ Sam had stepped up and said, “What we want is for you to feel comfortable with us, okay, which means us going with whichever pronouns _you_ want”, and every single person there had nodded in agreement.

Steve had insisted on spamming their group chat - Bucky winces, just the tiniest bit, when they think about Facebook - with links to various articles and websites about every aspect of life as a trans person, occasionally going off on rants about how way too many of the writers were glossing over - or ignoring entirely, not infrequently - the existence of non-binary trans people. Bucky hadn’t even read them all themself, but the fact that Steve was going to that much effort had meant more than all the accurate-but-impersonal articles in the world would have.

“Barnes,” they hear, and jerk their head up, with no idea of how long they’d been zoned out. Everyone calls them Bucky, even Nat, who used to call them James just because she knew it annoyed them. She’d very clearly felt bad when she realised just _why_ Bucky hadn’t liked it, but it hadn’t even occurred to them to hold it against her, so they’d moved past it easily.

It’s Clint, which explains the surname thing.

“What’s up,” Bucky says in a hopefully casual voice, taking a large bite of their almost-cold pizza. Not that its temperature is a good indication of how many minutes they’d been lost inside their head; the cafeteria food is lukewarm on a good day.

“You never messaged me about that dumb group project thing. You said you would last night.”

Crap. Bucky had completely forgotten about that. They, Clint, and Brock Rumlow had been put together to give a presentation on the Cold War for their history class.

Brock was the biggest asshole in a school full of them, so Bucky and Clint had only protested on principle when Brock had refused to do any work whatsoever. Fury’s no idiot, anyway; he’ll be able to figure out that Brock doesn’t have a clue what the words he’s reading off the screen actually relate to, and he’ll fall apart in the question-and-answer section.

“Sorry,” Bucky says, meaning it. They’d clicked out of Facebook so fast last night that they couldn’t even remember if there had been any notifications of unread messages, and they hadn’t been able to bring themself to log on again this morning.

“No worries.” 

Clint leans on the edge of the table in a way that very obviously shows off his biceps, which are on display as usual in a tank top even though they’re halfway through November. Bucky glances over at Nat, who they’re pretty sure is the intended audience, but she’s still focused on Sam. They’ve sometimes wondered if anything more than friendship might be fuelling Sam and Nat’s constant arguments, but the thought is too painful to examine for long, as is the reason behind it being painful, so they try to ignore that possibility completely. Maturity is overrated, they’re pretty sure, and so is confronting things that should just stay secret.

“You can come over to my place tonight,” Bucky offers, then remembers their mom’s going to be out at work all evening. “If you don’t mind helping babysit while we write stuff up,” they add quickly.

Clint looks genuinely delighted at the offer, because he’s never been good at acting like a regular teenager. “Aw, man. I am so there. Can I do Becca’s hair again?”

“If she wants you to,” Bucky says, ignoring the way their brain gave an annoying jolt at being called _man_ \- which is almost always gender-neutral anyway these days, for fuck’s sake.

They can’t help but wonder if anyone else round the table picked up on it. For once, they kind of hope the answer is no, because they don’t want to deal with a single question or comment about them being trans right now.

“Sweet,” Clint says, standing up straight and hovering by their table for a few seconds longer.

Nat finally looks up. Bucky’s almost certain that she’d been aware of Clint’s presence the entire time. “You have tomato sauce on your shirt,” she says mildly, and goes back to her pizza.

Clint looks down at the - very small, really, Bucky probably wouldn’t have ever noticed it - stain, and sighs in a much too melodramatic way. 

“There are easier ways to get me topless, Romanoff.”

“Don’t you dare, Barton,” Sharon interrupts. “We already have a warning from Tony’s attempt at a food fight last month, we don’t need anyone to start stripping at our table.”

“Guys,” Helen says, sounding excited. “If technology advanced enough that we could clone dead people, who would you want that to happen to?”

That actually works as a new conversation topic, and Clint disappears a moment later - probably to smoke a joint behind the maintenance shed.

The whole lunch period goes by without anyone saying a single thing about last night. Bucky thinks Tony might have brought up his attempt at robot-building a couple times, but he’s down the other end of the table where they can’t hear him unless they really concentrate.

There’s no reason everyone should be talking about their Sunday night, obviously. Bucky’s pretty sure nothing life-changing happened either at Maria’s sleepover or Tony’s game night; probably not much of anything went on that wasn’t on Facebook, else they’d already have heard about it.

They really, really don’t want anyone to bring it up, or to realise that Bucky hadn’t been invited to either event.

So why does their chest still feel so tight when lunch is over and everyone’s going their separate ways, still without anyone mentioning it?

Someone nudges them on the way to their locker, and they flinch away instinctively before registering it as Sam, who’s now got his hands up in a pretend-surrender position.

“You okay?” Sam asks, and fuck, that’s the face Sam gets when he’s honestly worried about someone.

“Fine,” Bucky mutters, then instantly feels bad. They like Sam - maybe a little too much, but they’re not going to think about that right now - and he’d only been trying to help.

“Tired,” they add before Sam can call them out on their bullshit answer. It’s true, anyway; it’s not like they got much sleep last night after - well, after.

“Aw,” Sam says, and Bucky knows that Sam knows something’s wrong, but they also know that he’s too nice to be pushy about it. “Want to help me come up with over-the-top metaphors for English next period? I didn’t even start the pathetic fallacy assignment yet.”

There are so many things about Sam that Bucky can’t help but like. There’s the way he calls pretty much everyone ‘man’ and ‘dude’ on a regular basis, except for Bucky. The way he cares about people, both as individuals and just in general, which is even more impressive for someone who has to show up to their hell of a high school five days a week. How unashamed he is about the things he loves, even when the rest of the world might want to dismiss them as nerdy or weird.

How fucking attractive he is, Jesus. It should be illegal for someone to be that good-looking.

Bucky tries to think of something other than Sam’s eyes for a second; they don’t trust their face not to give away something about their thoughts.

“The wind, um. Whistled like a falcon diving extremely fast to catch a mouse?”

There’s a reason Bucky reads fanfic rather than writes it, okay.

“That is terrible and I love it. Except it’s anthropomorphism, not pathetic fallacy, so no dice.” Sam stops walking, and Bucky realises they’re at his locker already. “Hey, I’m always here, if you want to talk. You know that, right?”

Bucky doesn’t make eye contact, but they nod once.

“Sure. Thanks,” they say, meaning it. Just because they can’t think of anything they’d rather do less than actually talk to someone about this doesn’t mean the offer is unwelcome.

“Anytime.”

And they know that Sam isn’t lying, which lightens their thoughts just a little for the next few minutes.

* * *

Bucky gets through the rest of the day without their anxiety ramping up any more than usual, which is good. It doesn’t end up being another nothing-day, as well, so all in all they have no reason to still be feeling like shit when they get home.

Not having a reason doesn’t mean they don’t, of course.

“Buckyyyy!” 

No matter how bad they’re feeling, they can’t help but smile at the enthusiastic greeting. 

“Hey, Becks,” Bucky says, picking up their little sister and easily swinging her onto their hip, shifting their backpack weight so it doesn’t knock into her with the ease of long practice. “Mom’s still here, right?”

Sometimes, if she has to get to either work or night school early, their mom will get one of the neighbours to watch the girls for an hour or so until Bucky can get home and take over. They don’t mind those days; unless it’s Ms Francis who’s called on to babysit, when the entire house will smell of her cheap perfume for the next day.

“Yup yup yup,” Becca says, tugging on Bucky’s hair until it starts falling out of its ponytail. “Guess what we learnt in school!”

“Frogs?” Bucky guesses absentmindedly, kicking their shoes off - with difficulty, because they don’t want to accidentally knock Becca against the wall when balancing on one foot - and heading into the kitchen to see if their mom is there.

“No!”

“Um. Butterflies?” What the hell had Bucky learnt in class when they were seven?

“Babies!” Becca shouts, right into their ear, and they wince both at the volume and at the topic.

They really don’t want to ask what exactly about babies Becca’s been learning, but she’s a talkative kid so Bucky’s pretty certain they’re going to find out anyway.

Their mom comes into the kitchen, balancing one of the twins - Alice, Bucky thinks, but they aren’t one hundred percent sure from just one quick glance - in the crook of her elbow.

“James, thank goodness.” She puts, yep, Alice down on the playmat in the corner, then pats herself down, probably checking there’s no toddler-drool on her outfit. “Evelyn’s sleeping, but wake her up in twenty, else she won’t settle tonight. There’s food in the fridge, I think - not much, sorry, I’ll leave you some cash in case you want to call for pizza.”

“All good, mom,” Bucky says, trying to give her a reassuring smile. “We can make pasta bake, Becca’s getting real good at it.”

“Pasta bake with pasta!”

“That’s right, Becks,” Bucky says, unable to stop themself from laughing a little at the weird statement. They put Becca down so that she’s sitting on the table, stretching out their shoulder as soon as the weight’s gone from it. 

Becca instantly gets down, because she’s basically a cat at heart - put her where you want her, and odds are it’s exactly where she doesn’t want to be - and occupies herself with rearranging their fridge magnets so that they’re all upside-down.

“Clint’s coming round later,” Bucky remembers. “Group project. He can help with Ally and Evie.”

“That’s great,” their mom says. “Don’t stay up too late, okay? He can sleep over if his dad doesn’t mind.”

Bucky nods, guessing that Clint will jump at the chance to stay out of his dad’s apartment for the night. 

“Right, I have to dash,” she says, taking out a twenty and leaving it on the kitchen table. Bucky already knows they won’t spend it. They had pizza for lunch, anyway; they don’t need it two meals in a row. “Girls, be good for your brother, okay?”

Alice is chewing on her own foot and Becca seems happy with her magnets, so they don’t reply, but that’s better than them crying for their mom to stay home with them.

“I’m sorry, darling,” she says to Bucky, giving them a quick kiss on the forehead. “I know it’s not easy for you, being the only boy in a house full of girls. Shit - shoot, I mean, sorry, where did I put my keys?”

Bucky swallows down any emotions that might be wanting to rise up inside them at hearing their mom’s words. They walk over and grab the keys from the top of the fridge, where their mom always leaves them if she’s getting a quick snack for their sisters.

“You’re an angel. I don’t know what I’d do without you. I’ll be back at ten, eleven at the latest, ring me if you need anything.”

“Sure, mom,” Bucky says on autopilot, following her to the front door. “We’ll be fine, don’t worry about us.”

“It’s a full-time job, love, can’t help it.”

And then she’s gone, along with yet another opportunity Bucky was given to say something like _actually, maybe I’m not exactly a boy_ or _can you say sibling instead of brother?_ Not that they would have, not with their mom in such a rush, but the chances keep sliding past until it feels overwhelming to them when they even think about taking one.

There’s a short knock on the door, and Bucky moves quickly to open it, assuming that their mom had forgotten something.

“Buckster!”

Oh.

“Hi, Clint,” Bucky says, thrown off-balance for a second. “I wasn’t expecting you until later?”

 _I definitely wasn’t expecting you to show up ten minutes after I got home from school,_ they think but don’t say.

Clint shrugs. “Eh. Barney texted me. Dad’s on a bender right now. Didn’t want to deal with that when I could be here, giving certain people expert _makeovers.”_

He says the words _makeovers_ extra loud, and sure enough Becca comes running into the hallway two seconds later, almost tripping over the rug in her rush to wrap her arms round Clint’s knees.

“Hair friend!”

Clint gives Bucky a dryly amused look over the top of Becca’s head. “Seriously, man? You told your sister my name is ‘hair friend?’”

“Didn’t tell her anything,” Bucky says truthfully, ignoring the _man._ “Becks, maybe let Clint go before he falls over, yeah?”

Becca reluctantly loosens her hold, choosing to try to peer inside the plastic bag Clint’s carrying instead.

“I want blue nails,” she announces with absolute certainty.

Bucky glances at the bag and notices that it’s filled with make-up supplies. Which seems very weird, considering Clint came here straight from school.

“Stuff Maria was going to chuck,” Clint explains. “Asked her if I could have it and she said it was fine, so long as I take pictures if I’m putting it on myself.”

Bucky nods mutely, unable to imagine being brave enough to ask one of the girls in their year for their cast-off beauty supplies. Or being comfortable enough with yourself that the question might not even count as bravery.

“Come on through,” they say quickly, wanting to change the subject in case they have a weird expression on their face. “I have to go wake Evie up, wish me luck.”

Clint salutes them, then manages to manoeuvre Becca into the kitchen, where Alice is still happily chewing away - this time on the teething toy attached to her playmat, thankfully.

Bucky goes through to the bedroom all three girls share, not worrying for a second about leaving Clint alone with Becca and Alice. They don’t know why Clint’s so good with kids, but the why of it isn’t the important part.

Clint and Bucky have somehow managed to become friends without Clint being absorbed into Bucky’s actual friendship group. It’s a situation that works just fine for them, but Bucky’s not quite sure why Clint doesn’t want to hang out with the others more, especially when you take into account the guy’s very obvious thing for Nat.

Bucky did ask once, but Clint just said he already had his own friends - which is true, though Bucky isn’t sure Scott Lang, who acts like he’s permanently stoned, is the most interesting choice of friend - and that he doesn’t like being in big groups.

It’s weird for Bucky to think about their friends that way, but they guess that nine people is kind of a lot, especially considering that there aren’t any two of them who wouldn’t get along if you stuck them alone in a room together. Steve and Tony might not have last year, but even that small amount of tension is gone now, and everyone - as far as they know - genuinely likes everyone else.

From the outside, yeah, Bucky can see why their group might look just a bit intimidating.

One of the best things about being friends with Clint is that Bucky never feels any pressure to reveal more of themself than they want to. They actually have no idea how Clint would react to them being non-binary; maybe he wouldn’t care at all, but the point is Bucky doesn’t have to tell him anything if they don’t want to, and they know he’ll never insist on knowing.

In return, Bucky keeps quiet about the brief mentions of Clint’s dad and brother, hoping that nothing bad ever comes of their silence.

They really aren’t sure if it’s the right thing to do, but Clint says his dad never gets violent, just shouts a lot. Which still sounds pretty bad, if Bucky’s being honest, but they don’t know if it would be betraying their friendship to mention anything to anyone, and the risk seems like it might be too big.

Evie doesn’t start crying when she wakes up, which is a minor miracle. Bucky should definitely have had a bottle ready for her, shit. 

They go back to the kitchen as quickly as they can without jolting the still-sleepy Evie, only to find that Clint’s already heating up milk on the stove and is in the process of putting together bottles for both Evie and Alice.

“You’re a lifesaver,” Bucky says, and it comes out much too sincerely.

Clint just gives a dismissive little wave. Bucky’s noticed that he hates people drawing attention to it whenever he does anything nice for anyone. “No prob. Hey, Becca, want to help me make sure this is the right temperature?”

Becca nods very solemnly. “Don’t want to burn the babies,” she says, and Bucky doesn’t make eye contact with Clint, knowing that if they look at each other they aren’t going to be able to resist laughing at the adorable seriousness with which Becca had spoken.

“Quite right,” Clint says, in an equally serious tone. “And after they’re all nice and full, we can make our dinner, hey?”

“Pasta bake with pasta!”

Bucky accidentally catches Clint’s eye.

“That sounds great, sweetheart,” Clint says, very clearly about a second away from uncontrollable laughter.

Bucky decides that now would be a good moment to intervene. “Becca, want to go help Alice sit up so she can have a drink?”

Thank god, Becca loves helping out with the twins. Bucky doesn’t know what they and their mom would have done if she’d turned out to be the jealous kind of sister, wanting all the attention focused on her. They love her more than anything, of course, but they also love the twins the exact same amount, and trying to mediate in constant one-sided arguments between a headstrong seven-year-old and two toddlers would be a new level of hell that Bucky has no desire to experience.

Between Bucky, Clint, and Becca, they get Alice and Evie fed without too much difficulty - though with no small amount of mess, but that had been a given - and set them up on their playmats, side by side, while the three of them make a start on dinner.

“So you want Clint to paint your nails blue, huh,” Bucky says to Becca. “Do you want him to do your hair as well?”

“Not blue, pink!”

“Pink, of course, my bad,” Bucky agrees, even though he’s sure Becca had said blue before. “Clint’s really good at it, you’ll have the prettiest nails in Brooklyn.”

“In the world,” Becca insists, and Bucky nods at her; they’re taste-testing the pasta so can’t reply out loud.

“Definitely in the world,” Clint says. “I’m insulted you went as small as Brooklyn. Hey, Becks?”

“Yes?”

Becca has either decided to hero-worship Clint or she has a small crush - or whatever the kids version is - on him, because the way she’s looking at him right now it seems like Clint could tell her he literally hung the moon in the sky and she’d believe every word.

“We should paint Bucky’s nails too, hey?”

Wait, what?

Bucky’s about to protest, when Becca lets out a loud, high-pitched laugh that makes them wince.

“Silly! Bucky’s a boy. Boys can’t have nails painted.”

That should definitely not be making that irritating pain in Bucky’s chest return. Becca’s _seven,_ for fuck’s sake, it’s not like she should know any better. Though it is pretty sad that she already thinks that stuff like nail polish is only for girls, they can admit.

“Oy, I like painting my nails,” Clint says easily. “And I’m definitely a boy.”

“Oh,” Becca says, clearly unsure of how to respond when it’s her hero disagreeing with her. “I guess Bucky can have purple nails. If he wants,” she adds, glancing up at them.

“Sure,” Bucky finds their mouth saying with zero input from their brain.

Fuck.

It doesn’t matter. They can just scrape it off before school tomorrow; it’s not a big deal. It shouldn’t be a big deal. 

Bucky carefully doesn’t look at Clint, who is measuring out tomato sauce as though nothing momentous had just happened. Which it hadn’t, obviously. It’s just - fuck. Bucky doesn’t know what it is, because their brain is refusing to cooperate with any kind of logic and is instead just playing a repeating loop of _someone will see, they’ll know, don’t risk it._

Dinner is a great success, as is Clint’s nail-painting party afterwards. Alice and Evelyn have no clue what’s going on, of course, but when Bucky puts on one of their favourite CDs - nursery rhymes sung by an off-key but extremely cheerful group of schoolkids - they happily sit in a nest of cushions on the floor, waving their arms and legs around in the most adorable attempt at dancing ever.

Becca hates sitting still, even when it’s Clint asking her to, but she just about manages it for the two minutes it takes five fingernails to be painted. Then she promptly jumps up in delight and starts her favourite game of climbing round the room without touching the floor

“Becks! It’s not dry!” Bucky calls after her, already knowing that it’s useless.

“Sorry if your couch ends up with pink stains,” Clint says, not sounding very apologetic. “Nail polish is a bi - um, a pain to get out.”

“Eh, it’s seen worse.” Bucky can’t really summon up the energy to care much about things like stains on furniture right now, not when Becca looks like she’s having the time of her life.

“You still up for it?”

Up for - what?

Bucky looks over at Clint, who’s waving a little bottle of purple polish around in the air, not looking even the slightest bit judgemental.

“Nah, I’m good,” they say, ignoring the little twinge in their chest.

“Aw, shame. I could have used the practice.”

They aren’t really sure what to say to that.

“Why do you want to be good at this stuff, anyway?”

“Make-up artist is my second career option if the whole Olympic archer thing doesn’t work out,” Clint says, exactly as though he was saying the most normal sentence in the world. “Ms Lewis hates my guts, I can tell.”

Bucky can’t help but laugh at the image of Clint matter-of-factly explaining his future employment goals to Ms Lewis, their careers counsellor, who they’re pretty sure is only about two years out of high school herself.

They can’t help but want to know more, even though they’re scared to ask at the same time.

“Why make-up?”

Clint shrugs one shoulder, which makes his biceps move in a very distracting way. Not that Bucky’s attracted to Clint, not really, but that doesn’t mean they can’t notice that he _is_ attractive.

“Dunno,” Clint says. “Mommy issues?”

Bucky throws the nearest thing they can reach - a pack of baby-wipes, it turns out - at Clint’s head. Unsurprisingly - but still annoyingly - Clint catches them with ease.

They aren’t blind to the fact that one of the things bonding them and Clint is the fact that they’re both kids of single parents whose partners have left them for no decent reason. Bucky has no idea where their dad is, and they really don’t care anymore. Clint does know where his mom is: happy in Indiana with her new husband and two daughters, which Bucky actually thinks might be worse than having it stay unknown, in some ways.

They guess that it’s Clint’s right to make jokes about it if he wants to. Just because Bucky chooses to go the route of pretending that they never had a dad at all - easy enough, most days; Becca barely remembers him, Alice and Evie were only a few months old when he left, and their mom really doesn’t love talking about him, for obvious reasons - doesn’t mean that Clint wants to deal with things in the same way.

Clint is the only person in the world who Bucky’s confessed to that they were briefly jealous of Steve, because Steve’s dad hadn’t _wanted_ to leave, he’d just got sick and couldn’t help it. Clint hadn’t judged them for a second, or if he had then he hadn’t let on.

“I’m not sleepy,” Becca suddenly pipes up, out of nowhere. Which means that she’s getting tired but doesn’t want to admit to it; instead she wants someone to order her to go to bed so that she can have one of her pretend-sulks about how unfair her life is before happily going off to get ready.

Bucky probably shouldn’t find her manipulation tactics cute.

“Al and Evie definitely are, though,” Clint says, nudging Bucky to look over at the pile of cushions.

Where, yep, the twins are slowly nodding off, though there’s still an occasional arm-wave or little kick that means they aren’t quite asleep yet.

“Alright,” Bucky says in their best attempt at a stern voice. “Becca, I’m going to put the babies in their cribs in Mom’s room tonight, okay? If you’re in your PJs with your teeth brushed when I get back, Clint might read you a bedtime story. If you ask nicely.”

Becca’s eyes go comically wide at hearing that, and she rushes off to the room she usually shares with the twins. Bucky vaguely wonders if they should feel jealous at how excited she is to have someone other than them read her a story, but they don’t even for a second - Clint is great, and he somehow skipped out on the teenage boy gene that would make voluntarily hanging out with a seven-year-old girl social suicide.

And Bucky’s read her a hell of a lot of stories, over the years. They can’t blame her for wanting a bit of a change.

“You staying over?” they ask Clint, not sure what they want the answer to be. They kind of want to be on their own, but part of them also wants the company, to distract them from the brain-noise that keeps trying to creep up and take over their thoughts again.

“Nah,” Clint says. “Staying for storytime, though, for sure. Do I get to make one up, or does she have books?”

“She’s got a ton of books, but if you make up your own story for her she’ll love you forever.”

“Aw. Sold.”

* * *

Alice and Evie go to sleep without too much fuss, and after an extra-long epic tale about a princess locked in a tower who saves herself by learning archery - Bucky isn’t quite sure how, but they don’t want to be pedantic when Becca’s looking so amazed - and firing an arrow with a rope attached down to a nearby tree, then ziplining her way to freedom, Becca drifts off too, with a mutter about wanting her own bow-and-arrows that Bucky really hopes she’ll have forgotten by the morning.

It’s already almost nine o’clock, and Bucky realises that they and Clint have done exactly zero work on their history project.

The two of them sit at opposite ends of the sofa, both with bowls full of the leftover pasta bake. Clint looks completely unbothered when Bucky apologises for the lack of research time, which is nice of him.

“Eh, no worries,” he says. “I had fun. And it gives me an excuse to talk to Nat, anyway. She knows a terrifying amount of Russian history, she won’t pass up a chance to make me look like a clueless jock for a bit.”

Bucky can’t deny that. “Have you ever thought about just asking her out?”

“Nope.”

Okay then. “Um, why?”

“Because she knows I like her. And she ain’t exactly the shy, retiring type, you get me? So I figure if she ever likes me back, she’ll be fine doing the asking.”

That’s - actually a really good point.

“How mature of you,” Bucky says, and their tone is sarcastic but they actually mean the words.

“How about you?”

What?

They can’t help but feel wary. “What about me?”

“Who’ve you got your eye on, duh.”

Bucky swallows, feeling sort of - defensive, and scared, and also like they want to actually open up to Clint, which just makes the first two feelings grow even more. “No-one,” they say, knowing that Clint won’t be convinced for even a second.

“Hey, sorry. Didn’t mean to hit a sore spot.” Clint nudges Bucky with his foot. “Can’t be as bad as Stark is with Pepper, though, right?”

Bucky laughs, only slightly reluctantly. “Definitely not.”

Which is true, though they can’t help but wonder if that’s because they’ve only actually known Sam for two years, and been friends with him for less than one. Tony, according to himself, has been madly in love with Pepper for the best part of high school, so getting on for four years now.

“There you go, my man. There’s still hope.”

“Can you maybe not call me that?”

Shit.

Shitshitshit.

They hadn’t meant to say that out loud. It hadn’t even been one of those moments of dilemma when they wondered whether or not to voice a particular thought. There had been absolutely no impulse in their head to ask Clint that question - except there must have been, somewhere in their subconscious, because the words are out now, and Bucky feels like they’re hanging in the air between the two of them, growing heavier and heavier with each passing second of silence.

“Man? Or my man?”

Bucky doesn’t think Clint sounds confused, which in itself in confusing to them.

They nod, because what else can they do? It’s not like there had been any other way to interpret their words.

“Both?” Clint asks, and, oh, yeah, that had been a question that actually required a verbal answer.

Which Bucky really isn’t sure they feel up to giving right now.

Clint nudges them again, probably because Bucky is staring very intensely at the back of the couch cushion and it’s irritating to talk to someone who refuses to even look at you.

“Sorry,” Clint says, sounding just a bit unsure of what he’s saying sorry _for,_ which is perfectly understandable since Bucky still hasn’t actually explained a goddamn thing. “I - can I ask you something?”

Bucky nods again, feeling horribly like some kind of dumb puppet.

“Is it because, um. I don’t know how to say this. But I was walking by Nat and Sam once - I swear I wasn’t listening in, I’m not that creepy, but they’re fucking loud, you know?”

They do know. Nat and Sam’s weirdly antagonistic friendship is legendary throughout their high school. Both of them love debating, and not just about regular debate topics like politics or social issues. They can argue about literally anything; Bucky thinks it would be exhausting, but they’re just glad that both Nat and Sam are in their friend group. Having only one or the other there would probably drive everyone else up the wall after a couple of weeks.

“They weren’t talking about you behind your back, or anything,” Clint says, which - counter-intuitively, because Bucky’s brain hates them - immediately makes them worry that that had been exactly what Nat and Sam had been doing. “I think it was just a conversation about who was coming to some D&D night they were planning, or something. But they were using, y’know, they instead of him to talk about you. Kind of wondered a bit, after that.”

Bucky opens their mouth, and closes it again. There are so many different thoughts competing for attention inside their head that they’re finding it difficult to pin one down long enough to actually understand it.

 _Nat and Sam still use neutral pronouns even when I’m not there_ is one.

Followed shortly by: _I didn’t even think about other people overhearing, should I ask everyone to use he and him when they’re in public places?_

 _Clint had worked out that something was different about me already and - probably - hasn’t told anyone,_ is another.

And, of course: _oh god oh god oh god, someone knows, fuck, what am I supposed to say? ___Which is both incoherent and completely unhelpful.

“It’s none of my business,” Clint adds after Bucky still doesn’t reply. “You don’t have to tell me anything, obviously. Sorry.”

Knowing that they don’t have to answer, that Clint will honestly drop the subject if they ask him to, and that he more than likely won’t even feel annoyed at the request, actually makes Bucky want to tell him. Something, at least.

“It’s fine,” Bucky says, wincing when they hear that their voice sounds a little hoarse. “Yeah, it’s - related to that. Which you probably figured out already.”

“I honestly know fuck-all about this kind of thing, I’m sorry. I don’t want to say anything wrong.”

“Can’t be worse than Tony,” Bucky says wryly, which is unfair because Tony had mostly just been confused. And they’re very certain that people could - and will, most likely - say much, much worse things than a few comments about Bucky wanting the best of both worlds.

“So everyone knows, then? In your group, I mean?”

Bucky wonders why Clint isn’t asking exactly what it is that people know.

“Yeah. I told Steve, then he helped me, um, come out to the others.”

Using a phrase like _come out_ somehow makes everything seem so much more real. Bucky is a big fan of dancing around subjects like this with euphemisms; it had been Steve who'd encouraged them to actually use the term ‘non-binary’ occasionally, instead of just sticking with the usual little ramble of _not really a girl or a boy, I don’t know, neither or both or something._

“Cool. So, ah. I can use they for you, as well, if you want?”

This seems like it’s going much, much too well.

“You haven’t even asked me why,” Bucky points out, finally deciding to look up at Clint.

Who has a slight frown on his face. “That’s still not really my business, is it? If you want me to call you something different, or whatever, that’s personal to you. You don’t, y’know, owe me an explanation.”

Is that actually true? It sounds nice - it sounds too good to be real, actually - but that doesn’t mean it’s how anyone other than Clint would think of it.

Bucky wishes he had a good response, but he can't concentrate for long enough to come up with anything. “Can I think about it?”

“Course. Let me know whatever, or don’t. Your call.”

Why can’t everyone be as strangely accepting as Clint? The world would be much better place for it. Or maybe Clint just smokes so much weed that he’s permanently too mellowed out to be bothered by anything like this. 

“Feel free to tell me to fuck right off,” Clint says, and Bucky braces themself for a question about surgery, or genitals, or any of the thousand invasive questions they’ve read about people being asked on the trans-specific forums they sometimes browse when Tumblr’s getting a bit overwhelming.

“Not the best start,” Bucky points out, feeling a wariness building up inside them that they hate but can’t help. 

Clint gives them a quick grin. “Yeah, sorry. I was just thinking, ah. You can have some of my make-up, if you want? I dunno if that’s something you’d be into, but it’s an open offer.”

Bucky’s instinctive reaction is to throw out a more-than-slightly panicked _no, no way,_ but they stop themself before they actually say it out loud, wanting to think their answer through a little more than that.

Their second reaction is still a no, but for different reasons. They don’t know exactly why Clint is asking. Maybe it’s because he thinks that Bucky isn’t really trans - or whatever he’s guessed, it’s not like they’ve actually clarified anything for him yet - unless they want to wear make-up, or dress in more feminine clothes, or something like that.

It only takes about a second for them to realise how unlikely that is. If it had been someone else asking, then that would be a definite possibility, but Clint? Who admits - no, not _admits,_ because that implies at least a small amount of shame, no, who talks casually - about wearing make-up just for fun, who invents fairytales about princesses rescuing themselves on the fly - either that or he’d already thought that story up, which would be a whole different kind of amazing - yeah, no. Clint doesn’t give a fuck about adhering to any kind of standards; it’s one of the things Bucky likes so much about him.

So, that particular reason doesn’t really apply. The only question left is both simple and impossible.

Do they actually want to?

“I just experiment with it for fun,” Clint adds. “I’m not, um. I’m a guy, I just think it’s bullshit that guys aren’t supposed to wear make-up. So if you want any, seems like it’d be a way better use for it than me messing around.”

Bucky imagines looking at themself in the mirror, the way they tend to avoid doing, these days. Eyeliner isn’t even seen as that feminine, anymore; they could probably get away with that. They’re pretty sure most people assume they grew their hair out because they’re either a metalhead, trying to be a rebel, or both. They could definitely rock the eyeliner look.

Lipstick? That might be a bit much. Lipstick is girly, they can’t help but think; even though rationally they know that’s not true - or doesn’t have to be true, or something.

But rationality doesn’t get a whole lot of room in their head when they think about themself with soft pink lips and their heart’s reaction is to clench in their chest in a way that feels like it’s literally skipping a beat - they can already hear Helen’s voice telling them why that isn’t true, but that’s what it _feels_ like. Way to overreact, they think, except if the confusion of thoughts in their mind is any indication, it isn’t really an overreaction.

Still. They can’t deny that there’s also a little thrill that rises up inside them at the thought, and they’re still feeling kind of upset at most of their friends, so the fact that Clint is offering something like this touches them even more than it would have on another day.

Bucky checks their phone. One message, from their mom, saying it might be more like eleven-thirty before she can get back. 

That leaves almost two hours.

They take a deep, slow breath in, and let it out gradually - an anti-anxiety technique they’d read about that, to be honest, does fuck-all for their actual anxiety, but which gives them a moment more to think before they speak.

“Can you help me?” Bucky says, and when they see Clint smile they can’t help but return it.

This is going to be - they aren’t sure. Terrifying, confusing, maybe a little bit fun?

They don’t know.

But they’re looking forward to finding out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Drawing heavily on my own angsty teen years for this fic. The goal is to make it a realistic high school AU, so as you can imagine there will be some not-so-happy times ahead (but lots of fluff and rainbows too!).
> 
> Hope you liked the first chapter! All comments are adored.
> 
> A note on pronouns, when using they/them people usually use either themselves or themself - I looked up if there was a general consensus and it seems to be whichever you prefer. I use themself, as does Bucky in this fic. In terms of linguistics, it isn't yet 'officially' recognised as a word (eh, who cares), but it has a lot of history of use.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam is so tempted to just turn around and head home, where he has warmth and hopefully the leftovers of whatever his mom had cooked for dinner waiting for him. But he guesses that Barton's about to go and talk to Bucky, which means there's still a possibility Bucky will want to see him; so he ducks his head further inside his coat collar and stands still.
> 
> He thinks he can hear voices, faintly, but they're much too muffled to make out any actual words. Not that he would have listened in even if they weren't. He's not feeling like his usual track record of not invading people's privacy is holding up too well today, and he doesn't want to make it any worse.
> 
> The door opens again, and Sam knows that his eyes go wide. He's surprised his jaw doesn't literally drop as well; he's grateful to his facial muscles for showing at least that tiny bit of restraint.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now we get to see a little bit of Sam's life. 
> 
> This fic is entirely unbetaed and I'm always very grateful to anyone who points out mistakes, whether major or minor ones.
> 
> Edited Sept 14th to add: There is now beautiful art of a scene from this chapter, by the wonderful Onychophora! Click [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8035726/chapters/18402574) to see it, it isn't spoilery but I will put the link in the end notes too in case you want to read the scene before seeing it.
> 
> No chapter-specific warnings.

* * *

Sam corners Steve as soon as he can manage it, which turns out to be in the changing rooms before track practice.

“I’m worried about Bucky,” he says quietly, trusting that the noise of the other guys getting changed and making dumb jokes will cover up his words.

“Hi to you too,” Steve says as he strips off his shirt. Sam tries not to look at the ridiculous muscles on display now. Honestly, if Bucky hadn’t shown him a picture of them with Steve when the two of them were kids, Sam probably wouldn’t have believed them when they told him about how tiny Steve used to be.

“Seriously,” Sam hisses, irritated with Steve for not responding properly. Bucky’s been - off, lately, only Sam isn’t quite sure how long _lately_ has been, which is a horrible thought.

Steve sighs. “Me too,” he admits, under his breath. “I’ve tried talking to them, but they won’t admit anything’s wrong. And they barely spoke to me all day today.”

“Same here.”

Sam thinks. He already feels kind of bad for going behind Bucky’s back like this, but he isn’t sure what else to do. Steve’s known them for years longer than the rest of their weird little friendship group have, but apparently that isn’t going to help right now.

“I wish I could go round to their house tonight,” Steve says, sounding frustrated. “Maybe they just didn’t want to talk when we were at school.”

That’s a good point.

“Why can’t you?” If anyone would be welcome, it’d be Steve. From the stories he and Bucky tell, they were practically each other’s family growing up.

“I promised my mom I’d be home as soon as I can. She gets her latest test results back tomorrow, and we’re going to have dinner together tonight.”

Oh. That’s an excellent reason. Sam hadn’t known Steve when his mom was first diagnosed with breast cancer, but he can tell the strain it’s had on his life. Their entire group had celebrated by having a bake sale to raise money for cancer research last year, when Sarah had been officially told she was in remission. Now she only has to have tests every few months, and as far as Sam knows the likelihood of the cancer returning is pretty low.

He imagines that tonight is still going to be stressful as hell for Steve and his mom, though, and he wishes he could do something to help them out a little.

“I could go round,” Sam finds himself saying. Shit. Why had he offered that?

Steve looks like his face can’t decide what emotion to settle on, and Sam has no clue what he’s thinking. 

“Really? You wouldn’t mind?”

Well, now Sam’s kind of offended. “Dude, they’re my friend too. Of course I wouldn’t. The point is, would _Bucky_ mind?”

Steve finally puts on his gym t-shirt, though it doesn’t leave a whole lot to the imagination. Still, his nipples are no longer visible, at least, which does wonders for the coherence of Sam’s mind. 

“I don’t think so,” Steve says thoughtfully. “They like you. You know where they live, right?”

Shit. Guess Sam’s doing this after all. 

He isn’t going to spend the entirety of track practice running over those simple three words of Steve’s: _they like you._

Definitely not.

* * *

Sam has actually only been to Bucky's place once, but it's near Steve's so he knows the way to the general area, and from there he manages to remember the way to the right apartment building. He looks at the little list of names with buzzers next to them, sees _Barnes_ listed as one of the fourth-floor apartments, and is about to press the button when he notices that the main entrance door is ajar anyway.

Who the hell is that unbothered about security when they live in New York?

He pushes it open anyway, making sure that it's shut firmly behind him, and decides to take the stairs up to buy himself a few more moments of thinking time.

This is such a bad idea.

He doesn't know what he was thinking when he'd suggested this to Steve. Sure, he and Bucky get on great when they're at school – after the first few stressful months of knowing each other, when there had been some kind of weird tension between them that Sam's pretty sure had stemmed from Bucky being scared that Sam was trying to replace them as Steve's best friend – but that doesn't mean it's a good idea to just show up at someone's home and basically invite yourself in to grill them about their life.

Third floor. One more flight of stairs to figure out what the fuck he's going to say.

On the one hand, this shouldn't be as weird as it feels. He's visiting a friend, admittedly without warning said friend, but he goes round to Steve’s place unannounced all the time; surely this shouldn’t be too different?

But Bucky is - they’re not exactly secretive, that’s not the right word, but they’re definitely a private person. And Sam really doesn’t want to do anything to make them uncomfortable.

He gets to the apartment door, and raises his hand to knock. Then lowers it again. He's starting to feel kind of creepy, and he's resenting himself for feeling that way, which is very counter-productive and unhelpful, thanks, brain.

Instead of knocking, he takes out his phone and starts typing out a message to Bucky.

**This is weird but I'm at your place, wanted to hang out but I'm only 2 stops on the L so feel free to tell me to fuck off.**

He hits send before he can overthink it, then swears quietly as he notices what time it is. It's almost ten, _fuck._ How had time got away from him that fast?

New York in November gets dark early, so that hadn't helped him keep track. He sends a quick text to his mom, letting her know where he is and that he'll be back in an hour. She is so not going to be happy with him, but hopefully this will end up being worth it.

Or it will screw up a friendship that he values more than he wants to admit.

Bucky hasn't replied yet. Sam bounces up and down on the balls of his toes, wondering why the fuck this building only feels a few degrees warmer than outside does right now.

The door swings open and Sam jerks his head up from his phone, only to see -

“Barton?”

Shit. Now that he thinks about it, he'd seen Barton at their lunch table today. He'd been too absorbed in trying to convince Nat that Sam Vimes was the greatest character to ever exist - and not just because they share a name - to pay much attention, but clearly the guy had been arranging something with Bucky.

“Ah, hey, Wilson.”

Sam feels like it's still a bit weird that Barton's the one who answered the door rather than Bucky, who actually lives here, but maybe he just feels that comfortable in the place. Sam stamps down the hint of jealousy that's threatening to rise up in him at that thought.

“Sorry,” he says. “I shouldn't have come by, not without asking. I just – wanted to talk to Bucky. I'll go.”

Barton cocks his head, looking at Sam very intensely.

“Wait here.”

Then he abruptly shuts the door in Sam's face.

What the actual hell.

Sam is so tempted to just turn around and head home, where he has warmth and hopefully the leftovers of whatever his mom had cooked for dinner waiting for him. But he guesses that Barton's about to go and talk to Bucky, which means there's still a possibility Bucky will want to see him, so he ducks his head further inside his coat collar and stands still.

He thinks he can hear voices, faintly, but they're much too muffled to make out any actual words. Not that he would have listened in even if they weren't. He's not feeling like his usual track record of not invading people's privacy is holding up too well today, and he doesn't want to make it any worse.

The door opens again, and Sam knows that his eyes go wide. He's surprised his jaw doesn't literally drop as well; he's grateful to his facial muscles for showing at least that tiny bit of restraint.

It's Bucky. Only – Sam's never seen Bucky like this, never even thought about it, really, not even after they'd come out as non-binary.

Their hair is loose, and Sam hadn't realised just how long it had been getting; at school they always keep it scrunched back into a messy ponytail or bun. It's brushing their shoulders, now, and it looks like it would be amazing to run your fingers through.

 _Get a fucking grip on yourself, man,_ Sam tells himself sternly.

Except that's a hell of a lot easier said than done, because it isn't just the hair. Bucky's wearing make-up. Just some eyeliner and a sort of peachy coloured lipstick, but somehow such a small alteration makes their face look startlingly different.

Not exactly more feminine, though Sam sure as fuck isn't going to say that. But – striking, definitely, and he means that in the best way possible.

“Hi,” Sam says, feeling ridiculously grateful that his voice comes out steady.

Bucky makes a small sound in their throat that Sam isn't even going to begin to try and interpret. “Hi.”

Sam has no idea what Bucky wants from him. Should he bring the whole makeover thing up or not? Would it make Bucky feel selfconscious if he did? Or if he didn't? Fuck, he doesn't know what to say – but he has to say _something,_ he can't just keep standing in the doorway acting like someone hit him over the head.

“You look good,” he settles on, hoping it doesn't sound completely pathetic.

Bucky ducks their head, and either they're wearing blusher that Sam hadn't picked up on before, on their cheeks just turned slightly pink.

“Was just messing around,” they say, which Sam is sure is a giant lie, but not one he's going to call them out on.

“Well, you look good,” Sam says again, then promptly wants to disappear. “Um, I'm really sorry I just showed up like this.”

“S'alright,” Bucky says. “My mom's out, and the kids are asleep.” Oh, shit. Bucky has three little sisters. Sam could have woken them up if he'd knocked. This had been such a bad idea.

“I'll head back,” he says, desperately hoping that this isn't going to make things weird between them at school tomorrow.

Bucky frowns at that. “You must have come out here for something.”

Yeah, to check up on you, which now that I'm thinking about it feels very invasive and I wish Steve had a few more boundaries when it came to friendship because then I would have questioned this whole thing a lot more before acting on some weird impulse decision that was probably fuelled by him standing there waving his pecs in my face.

“Not important.”

Bucky looks unconvinced, which is completely fair enough because Sam had probably been very fucking unconvincing.

“Clint's about to head home,” they say. “You can stay till my mom gets back, if you want.”

 _No, that's okay,_ Sam's brain responds, while his mouth opens and says, “If you don't mind,” because it's a fucking traitor.

Barton – Clint – comes back into view then, with his coat on.

“Sure you're okay?” he asks Bucky, which Sam might feel offended by under other circumstances.

But, well, he's the one who showed up at Bucky's home uninvited. Clint's the one who Bucky apparently trusted to be there when they're wearing make-up, which Sam would bet is no small deal.

Sam is absolutely not going to feel jealous of Clint, not even slightly, because that would be unfair and any good friend would just be happy that Bucky has someone they can feel so comfortable around.

Even if that person isn't Sam.

Why isn't it Sam?

“I'm fine,” Bucky says. “Thanks again.”

They hug Clint, and Sam tries very hard to not think about how rare it is for Bucky to initiate physical contact with anyone.

“Anytime,” Clint says lightly. “Hey, tell Becca I've got an even better story for her next time, okay?”

Bucky rolls their eyes. “You're already her favourite. But yeah, I'll tell her.”

“See you tomorrow,” Clint says, then gives Sam a little wave. “See you, Wilson.”

“Bye,” Sam says, returning the wave as Clint heads down the stairs, vaguely wondering why he doesn't just take the lift.

And then it's just the two of them.

Bucky opens the door for Sam, gesturing for him to come in.

“We don't have to be too quiet if we're in the living room,” they say. “Sound carries weird in this place, but it's alright here.”

Sam nods. “Sure.” He talks to Bucky near enough every day; why does this suddenly feel so awkward?

He hopes he's the only one feeling that way, then hopes for the opposite, then gives up on being smooth and just sits down on the couch.

Bucky sits at the other end, though not before Sam sees them scrub roughly at their lips with the back of their hand.

Sam is not a dramatic person, okay, no matter what Nat likes to claim. But that little motion of Bucky's hand? Yeah, describing it as _heartbreaking_ might not be wildly off-base.

“It doesn't bother me,” he says gently, even though he would have hoped that Bucky might already know that.

Bucky looks at him with a surprised expression. “What? Oh, right. No, the lipstick, um, it just feels weird. I don't even know what it looks like yet.”

Sam knows he's looking shocked after hearing that. “You haven't done this before? Wait, and you haven't looked in a mirror yet?”

“Nah,” Bucky says, looking kind of embarrassed, but not massively so. “Clint brought it for Becca. I didn't even think about trying it before, not really.”

“Do you like it?” Sam asks, feeling brave now that they're properly talking about this.

Bucky considers the question for a few seconds. “I don't know,” they say eventually. “It makes me feel really – aware of myself. I don't know if that's just 'cause it's new, though.”

“Maybe if you wore it more often,” Sam says, trying not to make the words sound like a suggestion.

He still regrets them, though, when Bucky's lips turn down just slightly, every movement accentuated by the still-visible colour on them.

“Not much chance of that,” they say. “And before you argue, there's no fucking way I'm wearing make-up to school.”

Sam puts his hands up. “Hey, I wasn't trying to push. Sorry.”

Bucky sighs. “No, you're fine, don't worry. I'm just, y'know.” They push their hair back behind their ears, and Sam wonders how often they wear it down at home.

“Yeah,” Sam says, even though he very obviously doesn't know. “So, ah. You want to look in a mirror before your mom gets home?”

Bucky's eyes go wide with something that Sam really hopes isn't fear, and they pull their phone out, probably to check the time. Sam glances at his own. 10.20. Shit, his mom is going to be so pissed off at him when he gets back. And he hates taking the subway at this time; there are weirdos there no matter what time of day it is, but there's definitely a few more of them at night.

“I guess,” Bucky says, sounding very uncertain.

“You don't have to.” _Obviously,_ Sam wants to add, but doesn't.

“Might as well, since it's on already,” Bucky says, and they look determined now that they've made up their mind. Sam wonders if they're already thinking of this as the last time in a long while that they might have the chance to put make-up on, and really hopes that that isn't the case.

Not that – it's not like he thinks that Bucky _should_ wear make-up, or have their hair down more, or anything like that. But he very, very strongly believes that they should feel _able_ to do those things if they feel like it, which is different.

Bucky goes into the bathroom and comes out with a mirror about the size of a book in their hand, which surprises Sam. He'd just been assuming that Bucky would want to do this on their own, and the fact that they trust Sam enough to have him in the room warms something inside him.

Even if he'd basically forced Bucky into letting him into their home, he thinks, and the warm feeling vanishes.

“Here goes,” Bucky mutters under their breath, and looks in the mirror with no build-up at all.

Sam lets out his breath, allowing the pep talk he'd been preparing himself to give fade into the back of his mind.

“I was right about the eyeliner,” Bucky says with a sort of edge to their voice; Sam can't tell if it's good or bad.

“Right in what way?”

_That it looks fucking incredible?_

“Makes me look like I'm trying to be all punk rock.”

Sam looks at Bucky, and can see where they're coming from. They usually dress pretty scruffy, these days, though Sam remembers back when he'd first met them they used to go for almost a preppy style. But now, with the long hair, and the ripped jeans, and especially with the eyeliner – yeah, okay, he can see it.

“Not a bad thing,” he says, hoping that Bucky feels the same way.

“Sure. Less people want to fuck with me this way, at least.”

That's kind of a sad reason to pick a style, Sam thinks, but then he remembers how when he'd once asked his dad – who's six foot four and looks like he could pick up a car without breaking a sweat; plus, people often read black men as intimidating for a lot of bullshit reasons – why he always wore such boring grandpa clothes, his dad had looked at him silently for a moment and then answered in a way that had stuck with Sam, even all these years later.

 _It helps people be less afraid of me,_ he’d said, and he hadn’t sounded anything but resigned.

Sam wonders if Bucky might respond to the same question with the opposite answer.

_It helps people be more afraid of me._

“You're a regular rock-chick,” Sam says flippantly, trying to distract himself from that particular train of though, then winces. 

Bucky doesn't look pissed off, or upset, though. “I don't know if I like the lipstick,” is all they say, in a considering kind of voice. 

Sam isn't going to say _I do,_ because that's completely irrelevant and he knows it. “So stick with eyeliner for now,” he says. “You don't have to go along with something just because it's what you think you're supposed to do.” 

Bucky smiles at him, a quick flash of a grin that makes Sam catch his breath – which is fucking ridiculous, he's not in some two-dollar romance novel. 

“Yeah, I know,” Bucky says. “I don't actually have that much dysphoria, to be honest. It's more, um. Sorry, you probably don't want to hear about this.” 

Sam blinks, because when had he ever given Bucky that impression? 

“Of course I do,” he says honestly. “If you want to talk about it, I mean.” 

“Okay,” Bucky says, not looking all that convinced. “Well. I don't have much dysphoria about my body, is what I should have said. Like, I don't ever want surgery, and probably not even hormones.” Bucky pauses, looking almost shy for a moment. “I like the idea of changing some little things. Shaving my legs, maybe, or wearing und – anyway.” 

They stop talking for a second to glance at Sam, who is trying very, very hard not to finish that sentence mentally in his head. 

Had Bucky been going to say women’s underwear? This is a question that he really needs answered. Which makes him feel like an asshole, because this isn't some kind of sex thing, and if Bucky did want to wear lingerie, that would be absolutely none of Sam's business. 

That doesn't make it easy to remove the image from his head, of course. 

He nods at Bucky in a way that hopefully conveys something along the lines of _I'm not judging you even a little bit and can you please change the subject before I accidentally picture you naked?_

That would be some nod. 

“Anyway, yeah,” Bucky continues. “I have more of, it's called social dysphoria? Like when everyone assumes I'm a guy, and automatically uses male pronouns, or says something about me being super manly, or whatever. I don't blame people for it, or anything. It just gets to me sometimes.” 

“I'm so sorry,” Sam says, and he's definitely not thinking about lingerie anymore. “That must be really hard, to have to go through that every day.” 

That's going to be a tough balancing act, he can't help but think. For Bucky to have people recognise them as non-binary without being told, they'd probably have to transition physically more than it sounds like they want to, or present differently, or something. Which just – it sucks, which is the biggest understatement ever, but Sam isn't feeling particularly eloquent right now. 

Bucky's phone vibrates, and they glance at the screen without picking it up. 

"My mom's going to be home soon,” they say, already tying their hair back with a band that had been around their wrist. “I have to make sure all this is off.” 

“Yeah, I should head back anyway,” Sam says, wanting to leave on a positive note but not sure how. “Thanks for sharing with me. Sorry again for coming round without asking.” 

“It was nice,” Bucky says, and Sam thinks that they're as surprised as he is by the words. “I mean – no, yeah. It was. Thanks for listening.” 

“Anytime.”

Sam really hopes that Bucky can tell how much he means that. 

* * *

Sam is shivering when he steps through the door to his family's apartment, closing it behind him as silently as he possibly can. Sarah, his older sister, probably won't even be home yet, but his mom and dad might well have gone to bed already. 

When he walks into the kitchen, though, his dad is sitting there, reading his Kindle with a faint frown on his face. 

“Hey, pop,” Sam says, hoping that his dad hasn’t stayed up late just to make sure his son had made it home safely. 

“Hi there. Your mom's working the early shift tomorrow, so she went to bed.” 

There's no judgement in his dad's tone, none at all, but Sam still feels bad. He drops into a seat at the table, feeling exhausted all of a sudden now that he's in from the cold. 

“Sorry,” he says quietly. “I was worried about Bucky, so I went round to – his place.” 

Sam wonders if it would make Bucky happy if he told them that his instincts make it hard for him to say _his_ rather than _their,_ these days. He then wonders if he should be alarmed at just how much he wants to make Bucky happy, even if it's just for a few minutes. 

“You're a good kid,” his dad says mildly. “I figured it was something like that.” 

“You didn't think I was out at an all-night rave, or anything?” 

His dad laughs, just a little, and the line between his eyes looks fainter. “That was my second guess. Boozing it up in some warehouse, or whatever you young'uns get up to these days.” 

“Oh my god, Dad, please never say that again. And I'm pretty sure any spare warehouse in Brooklyn has been turned into fancy redbrick lofts for rich hipsters now, so we'll have to find a new place to party.” 

“Ain't that the truth,” his dad says, even though he was born and raised in Harlem and had only moved to Brooklyn when Sam's mom had got a job in Bushwick. 

"I should probably go to bed,” Sam says reluctantly, since it's gone eleven now and he has to be up again at seven. 

“Sleep well,” his dad says, then opens his mouth again, looking almost hesitant. 

Sam gets up, but hovers by the table. 

Hesitance is a pretty rare look to see on Thomas Wilson. Sam's dad is a study in contrasts. Ex-forces, with one of the kindest souls you could ever hope to meet. Looks intimidating as hell to most people, but instead of playing it up he wears threadbare corduroys and wool sweaters with terrible old-fashioned patterns. 

But one thing that's consistent about him is that he's almost never unsure about what he wants to say; or if he is, he doesn't show it. 

“This Bucky,” his dad says, and Sam's stomach decides to try and tie itself into a knot. “You talk about him a lot. You met him though Steve, right?” 

Sam's dad loves Steve, and the feeling is mutual. Sam isn't even sure why. It would make sense for it to be because Steve's dad had been a soldier, or because they both love reading or something like that, but their friendship doesn’t seem to fit neatly into either of those explanations. They’re just - weirdly similar, somehow, which is such a fucking odd thought to have about his dad and one of his best friends. 

He isn't focused on that right now, though, not even a little. 

Does he really talk about Bucky that much? 

_No,_ he wants to protest, but he's pretty sure that that's just a gut reaction. If anything, though, he'd have expected to hear that he doesn't talk about Bucky as much as he does his other friends, both because he doesn't like having to misgender them, which is necessary when he's with anyone not in their main group, and because – well, because whenever he does talk about them, he's always conscious that he has to be careful not to reveal any, well, feelings he might have. 

Not-friendly feelings. 

Or, not _just_ friendly feelings, would be a better way to put it. 

“Yeah, him and Steve have been friends since they were kids,” Sam says. He swallows, and tries to keep his expression as steady as he can. How does he usually look? What's his most neutral face? Why does it feel like every nerve in his face is twitching uncontrollably right now? 

His dad just nods. “Was good of you to check up on him,” he says, which gives Sam precisely nothing to go off as to what he's actually thinking. 

“What friends are for, right?” 

Sam's dad is really good at reading people. Which is very cool sometimes, and is undoubtedly useful for his job as a counsellor, but right now it could not be less welcome. 

“He's lucky to have you. Night, son.” 

“Night,” Sam says, hoping that the word didn't come out sounding too strangled, and escapes to his room. 

_He's lucky to have you._ That – okay, that could totally be a thing that someone might say about a friend. Definitely. Sam shouldn't read too much into it. 

He's already reading _way_ too much into it, though, and he isn't sure how to stop. 

Sam honestly has no idea how his dad would react to the idea of Sam being – not exactly straight. Bisexual? Pansexual? Gay? How the hell do people actually manage to figure this shit out? 

He knows how his mom would feel about it, which is why he's determined to either never come out to her or to wait until he's in college and has moved out, and he wouldn't want to come out to his dad and then ask him to keep it a secret from his mom. That seems like it would be unfair; but just from a purely curious point of view, Sam suddenly really, really wants to know his dad's thoughts on the matter. 

Sam checks Facebook quickly before getting into bed, as usual. There's a few more comments on Tony's robot post – he rolls his eyes as he thinks about how dramatic Tony had been yesterday; thankfully the project had been abandoned as soon as Rhodey had suggested that maybe they should just experiment with new popcorn flavours instead of the best welding techniques. 

He scrolls down and sees that Maria's added a few more photos from her sleepover, including one of a completely shredded pillow captioned _never get between Sharon and chocolate_ that makes him laugh. It was kind of funny how the boys night had ended in cooking together and basically gossiping about Tony's crush while the girls night had turned into a mock-fight and some kind of weird circus thing that Sam doesn't want to - 

Wait. 

Fuck, wait a second. 

Sam scrolls up to Tony's post, and back down to Maria's. He clicks over quickly to Sharon's profile, remembering that, yeah, she'd made a post last night as well. 

Oh fucking _hell._

Why hadn't Bucky _said_ anything? 

Jesus fucking fuck. 

Sam doesn't know for sure that this was the reason they'd been especially quiet at school today; he isn't psychic, but it's a damn good guess. 

But - the four of them hadn’t been deliberately excluding Bucky; Steve had known that they would be looking after their sisters, and the whole ‘let’s watch the baseball game together’ idea had been a completely spontaneous plan of Rhodey’s. They hadn’t even remembered the girls were having a sleepover until Steve had got a text from Nat asking how to get a wine stain out of a nice cream carpet. 

They really hadn’t meant to leave Bucky out. Especially not in such a horrible, binary kind of way. 

That didn’t change the fact that it had happened, though. God, how the hell is Sam going to fix this? He doesn’t even know if he should tell the others, not if they haven’t already figured it out for themselves. Bucky’s not exactly the sort of person that thrives on any kind of attention, whether it’s negative or positive, and Sam will be so mad at himself if he somehow manages to make this whole fucked-up situation even worse than it is right now. 

He's not going to get much sleep tonight, he can already tell. 

But he closes his eyes anyway, determined to try. 

And even more determined to find some way to make this up to Bucky, no matter what it takes. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And again [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8035726/chapters/18402574) is the link to the gorgeous drawing by Onychophora.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Thank you so much, really,” Steve says, trying not to rise to the bait. “That’s exactly what I was going for. It’s in the briefing and everything. Paint a fucking horny tree were Mr Sitwell’s exact words.”
> 
> Okay, so he might be just a shade more pissed off than he’d realised.
> 
> “Language, Rogers,” Nat says - seriously, is anyone ever going to let the one time he’d told Tony to please stop swearing when there were freshmen around go?
> 
> He puts down the paintbrush, resigning himself to not getting any more work done today. He should have gone for a run instead; he’s probably faster than Nat and Sharon. Possibly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Steve's chapter now. Remember the main characters in this are all teenagers so will hopefully be recognisable but not identical to their adult personalities! Hope you enjoy.
> 
> Chapter warnings: mention of cancer, implied internalised biphobia.

* * *

Steve still doesn't know what's going on with Bucky – other than the usual – which isn't new, but he's starting to think that something's up with Sam, as well.

He'd asked Sam about his visit to Bucky a couple of days ago, and had got a reply that had sounded hopeful at the time, but which Steve had since replayed in his head and that now feels nothing but vague and kind of like a platitude.

Which Steve really doesn't appreciate.

He's Bucky's best friend, okay, if something is wrong then he wants to know what it is.

He wants to know how he can fix it, and no, he doesn't have some kind of _hero complex,_ fuck you very much Sam Wilson.

The art room is always a good place to work out his feelings, though, and he’s got over half of a forest painting done for his final project already, even though he’s only been here for two hours.

“That is one angry-looking tree,” comes a voice behind him, and he jerks his hand back quickly from the canvas to avoid turning a delicate dark-green leaf into a misshapen splodge.

“Hi, Sharon,” he says before he turns around. “Oh. Hi, Nat, as well.”

“I don’t think it looks angry,” Nat says in a musing sort of way. Steve isn’t going to thank her for the back-up until he knows that’s all she wants to say. “I think it looks sexually frustrated.”

There it is.

“Thank you so much, really,” Steve says, trying not to rise to the bait. “That’s exactly what I was going for. It’s in the briefing and everything. _Paint a fucking horny tree_ were Mr Sitwell’s exact words.”

Okay, so he might be just a shade more pissed off than he’d realised.

“Language, Rogers,” Nat says - seriously, is anyone _ever_ going to let the one time he’d told Tony to please stop swearing when there were freshmen around go?

He puts down the paintbrush, resigning himself to not getting any more work done today. He should have gone for a run instead; he’s probably faster than Nat and Sharon. Possibly.

Plus, then he could have literally been running away from his feelings, which would have provided a good internal monologue for him to berate himself with.

“It’s a nice painting,” Sharon says apologetically. “The leaves are very realistic.”

Steve raises one eyebrow. “Realistically angry?”

“Okay, I’m sorry about saying that. I was more trying to ask you why you looked so annoyed, in a roundabout way.”

“I’m fine,” Steve says instinctively, which causes both Sharon and Nat to stare at him in silence for several seconds.

That should not be as intimidating as it is.

He sighs. “I’m worried about Bucky, is all,” he admits, knowing that trying to deny anything is wrong would be a lost cause.

“That’s your permanent state of being, we already knew that.”

Thank you so much, Nat.

“Is - are they okay?” Sharon asks, sounding genuinely concerned. She and Bucky don’t hang out that much on their own, but Bucky’s said before that they like her and that Steve should just _man up, Rogers - no, wait, person up - and just fucking ask her out already._

“I don’t know.” And it’s true. Gone are the days when he and Bucky would talk to each other about anything and everything: Bucky’s dad leaving, Steve’s mom having cancer, all their thoughts and hopes and dreams and fears because were they even real if they couldn’t share them with each other?

“They will be,” Nat says, which doesn’t actually comfort Steve. For one thing, she sounds certain, which means she probably knows something he doesn’t. Plus, her phrasing means that Bucky definitely isn’t fine right now, which - Steve didn’t really need an official confirmation, or anything, but still.

“Sam will have a plan,” she adds, and now Steve feels even worse. That’s so great, that Sam’s already come up with a way to make things better, even though he’s only friends with Bucky because Steve introduced them, and -

 _This is not fucking about you,_ he shouts at himself inside his head for the thousandth time.

“Brooding on it won’t help,” Nat points out. “Plus it would annoy the shit out of Bucky if they knew you were doing it.”

“I know that,” Steve says, unfairly frustrated with the both of them, and with the universe in general. “I just - he won’t fucking talk to me!”

Steve goes very, very still. 

“They,” he says, in a voice that comes out as almost a whisper.

He’s looking down at the floor, but he can still see Sharon and Nat exchanging a silent glance in his peripheral vision.

“Steve, come on,” Sharon says, reaching out and putting a hand on his arm that he tries not to flinch away from. “We all screw that up sometimes, don’t start beating yourself up about it.”

“Yeah,” Steve says quietly, wondering how often the rest of them do accidentally misgender Bucky, knowing that whatever the answer is you could summarise it as _less than he does._

He’s tried every single method he’s found on the internet. Talking to himself at home, under his breath: _Bucky is my best friend, they have brown hair, they’re a giant nerd but won’t admit to it, they stole my Psylocke action figure when we were kids and they never gave it back…_

And he usually gets it right when he’s talking out loud, though he thinks he’s probably just a little more conscious of every word he speaks, these days - which isn’t a bad thing, it’s just a fact.

“Everyone needs different people in different ways,” Nat says out of nowhere, with her accuracy at reading people that quite honestly scares Steve more than a little. “That’s why having just one friend isn’t necessarily a good thing, even if they’re the best friend ever.”

Fuck you and your fucking insights, Nat.

She’s right though; he knows that, as much as he wants to be a coward and hide away from every truth that’s doing its best to stare him in the face.

The thing is, though - the thing is, for so long Bucky _was_ Steve’s only friend. 

And Steve - Steve had never been that for Bucky, not in the same way. Oh, sure, he was still Bucky’s best friend, which had caused him to pinch himself more than a few times, over the years, but he wasn’t the person Bucky’s entire world rotated around.

Because that’s unhealthy as fuck and makes you sound like a selfish, self-absorbed whiner, he tells himself sternly, but even though he knows that’s all true, he still can’t make himself stop feeling that old fear that he isn’t going to be good enough to be Bucky’s friend for much longer rise up inside him.

“Yeah,” is all he says, because he doesn’t want to try for a full sentence and end up revealing more than he would have wanted to. “Um, what did you want, anyway?”

“Honestly, Steve, not everything’s about you,” Nat says, accidentally - he hopes, anyway; a psychic Natasha Romanov is a thought that’s too terrifying to contemplate for long - echoing his earlier thoughts. “I wanted to make a start on a new sculpture, and Sharon very kindly agreed to help me.”

Steve glances over to the corner that every single student who uses the art room has tacitly agreed belongs solely to Nat now. Her sculptures and her found art pieces are - well, they’re incredible, Steve can admit, but they’re also what he can only describe as _very fucking disturbing._

The latest one, which involves a lot of knives and a ballet _pointe_ shoe with very realistic bloodstains, makes him wince whenever he looks at it. He told Nat that when she asked for his feedback, and she’d looked much too pleased at that comment.

“What’s your new one going to be of?” he asks, already certain that he’s going to regret listening to her answer.

“A hand,” Nat says, which seems innocuous enough. “Except the fingers are going to turn into spider’s legs halfway through.” Right. “It’s a profound statement on how humanity views decay. Also, Rumlow has arachnophobia. Coincidentally.”

“How very nightmare-inducing of you,” Steve says, unable to stop himself from sounding fond, even though he means his words literally.

“Why, thank you.”

Something occurs to him then. “Um, Sharon? How exactly are you helping?” He thinks Sharon is amazing, okay, and she has a heck of a lot of talents - some of which, like shooting a gun with unerring accuracy, are shrouded in mystery as to where she actually learned them - but her artistic ability is very, very limited.

“I’m going to be the hand model, duh,” she says, and wiggles said hand in his face.

“Sharon has excellent fingers,” Nat says, with what Steve tries not to interpret as a sly glance at him.

“That’s great,” he says, glaring at Nat. Could she be any less subtle, seriously?

He knows that she’s capable of being so sneaky that no-one would ever have any idea what she’s thinking, is the thing, so when she makes little comments like that he knows for sure that she’s doing it deliberately.

Sharon just looks mildly confused, at least, which is something. 

“Anyway,” Steve says, going over to the sink to wash his brushes. “I have to head home, so I’ll leave you to it.”

“Say hi to Sarah from me?” Sharon says, and Steve lets himself smile, just a little, since his head is ducked over the sink and neither of the girls will be able to pick up on it.

Sharon always remembers to ask how Steve’s mom is doing, always. 

“Sure thing.” He leaves the brushes to dry - they belong to every student; he keeps meaning to save up for his own but so far he hasn’t made too much of an effort, and grabs his backpack, giving Sharon and Nat a wave goodbye.

Nat waves back; Sharon can’t, because she’s busy holding her hands in a not very comfortable-looking curved position. Steve reminds himself to check in with her tomorrow, to make sure that her muscles didn’t cramp up or anything. Being an artist’s model is generally a lot less romantic than it sounds.

* * *

“Hi, mom!” he calls out as soon as he’s through the door.

“Hi, darling,” she says from her usual spot on the couch. “How was school?”

Steve sits down next to her and launches into a quick play-by-play of his day, ignoring the time spent in the art room and his entire conversation with Nat and Sharon.

He’s fully aware that teenagers are supposed to want to rebel at home and distance themselves from their parents, but he also couldn’t care less. He lost his dad when he was a kid, he came terrifyingly close to maybe losing his mom as well, and she’s now the only blood family he has left.

He isn’t ever going to waste the time they have together with pointless arguments about room-cleaning and curfews, though he tries not to judge his friends that do constantly fight with their parents.

“Oh, and Sharon says hi,” he remembers to add, hoping that he isn’t blushing when he says it.

His mom gives him a knowing look. “Such a nice girl,” she says. “Very respectful. She seems like she has a kind heart.”

“Um, yeah, she’s great,” he says, trying to pretend that he’s talking about Maria or Helen to make sure that his words come out in a completely normal way.

He’s never been any good at acting.

There’s something he’s been wondering about for a while now, but he thinks it might be weird to ask. But - the last few days have meant it’s been on his mind a lot, since he’s worried that the reason Bucky’s been acting even more distant than usual might be because they’re scared to come out to their mom and sisters.

Plus, he really wants a subject change right now, and he can’t think of anything else to bring up.

“Mom? Can I ask you something?”

“Of course, _a leanbh_ ,” she says, and he relaxes at hearing the old endearment.

“This - I’m not trying to test you, or anything. I’m just curious.”

“Well, so am I, now. Go on.”

“Would you mind at all if I was, um, gay or something?”

She doesn’t look particularly surprised at the question, which Steve finds odd. “Or something?” is all she says, but then holds her hand up when he opens his mouth again to try and explain. “Steve, I love you. I can’t imagine loving you any less, or any differently. If you were queer in any way, shape or form, I wouldn’t _mind,_ no. I might be a little sad that there would be people in the world who would hate you for it, but it wouldn’t ever change how much I care about you.”

Oh. 

“Thank you, mama,” he says, and he’s startled to find himself blinking back a tear or so. “I feel bad now. I wasn’t actually trying to come out, or anything. I was just - wondering, I guess.”

“You’re always welcome to ask me anything, love. And I admit, I would have been very surprised if you were gay, with the way you talk about Sharon.”

Steve is definitely blushing now. “But you wouldn’t be surprised if I was something else? Like, I don’t know, bisexual?” He’s not going to reply to her comment about Sharon, mostly because he has no idea what to say.

“Well, I might be a little disappointed in myself for never noticing, I suppose,” his mom says, not sounding even a tiny bit uncomfortable with this topic of conversation. “But no, not surprised.”

“I’m not, though,” Steve says, because he’s aware that this all sounds like a very convoluted way of him attempting to come out.

His mom smiles at him. “I believe you.”

Then she gets an odd look on her face, one that Steve can’t place even though he’s known her literally his whole life.

“Mom? You okay?”

If it had been any other time of the year, he might have felt that leaping, all-consuming fear take over his brain, the fear that said she was about to tell him - oh-so-gently, of course, because Sarah Rogers could never stop herself from taking care of people, even when her life was falling into shreds around her - that this was it, the cancer had come back and this time it was here to stay.

He knows that fear will never leave him, not if his mom lives to be a hundred years old.

But right now - well, her tests had been done in the past fortnight, and Steve’s paranoid but he’s done a lot more research than the average teenager has on the development and spread of cancer cells, and he knows that a clean bill of health a few days ago means that they shouldn’t have to worry for a while.

Unless - oh, God, unless there had been some kind of mistake, a mix-up at the hospital, paperwork gone missing or something -

“Steve, calm down,” his mom says in a firm voice. “Do you even know where your inhaler is?”

He takes a deep breath, and lets it out slowly, still aware of the subconscious doubletake his mind always goes through when he manages to exhale without a trace of a wheeze or a cough. 

“I haven’t had an attack in two years,” he reminds her.

“And let’s keep it that way, alright?”

He still thinks she looks anxious, and he can’t not ask again. “Really, mom. Are you okay?”

She looks down at her hands, which are folded round the book she’s been reading when he entered - A Tree Grows In Brooklyn, which Steve’s seen her read from cover to cover in a single sitting before.

“I’m fine, darling. Just - you reminded me of something, with your question. That’s all.”

With his question about what she would think if he came out to her? That just makes him more confused and curious, not less.

She sighs, and he stops himself from asking her if she’s okay for a third time. He always hated when people used to push him about his physical health, acting like he didn’t know his own capabilities. Admittedly, looking back at his childhood, he may have overestimated himself a time or two, but that doesn’t mean he’s grateful now to the people who had tried to hold him back in the past.

So if his mom says she’s okay, he’s not going to press. 

“I am,” she says abruptly, and Steve frowns. She’s what? Fine? She already said that. Which isn’t a good sign, maybe - repeating something over and over sounds like she might be trying to convince herself of its truth.

He looks at her, at her fingers clenched on the pages of her favourite book, at the lines on her face - more frown than laughter, though there’s a mix of both - and prays, yet again, that she’ll be able to stay with him for decades still.

“You’re what, mom?” he asks, trying to forget that particular train of thought.

She looks back. “I’m bisexual. Not that we had a word for it, when I was growing up. But, well. I am.”

Steve has never felt as blindsided as he does right now, not even when Bucky had come out to him as something he’d never even heard of.

“Oh,” he says weakly - he's half in shock, really, he doesn't know what to say.

“Sorry,” she says, in a voice that doesn’t sound quite right. “This is very backwards, isn’t it? I just - I suppose I wanted to say it out loud.”

He can’t move fast enough. He carefully takes the book from his mom’s hands and moves closer to her, wrapping both his arms around her even though it’s very far from a comfortable position to hug someone from. 

She feels so small. He isn’t even going to think the word _frail,_ because it wouldn’t be true, anyway, that’s not a word that will apply to Sarah Rogers when she’s eighty, and it certainly doesn’t now.

But - small.

“Mama,” he says, not caring that it comes out with a catch in his throat. “I - everything you said to me, okay? I love you. I’m so proud of you. You’re - you’re amazing. Don’t ever apologise.”

 _I suppose I wanted to say it out loud,_ she had said. That - did that mean that she had never told anyone, never in all these years? Kept it inside like the shameful secret she’d grown up believing it to be, even when she’d moved to New York City, one of the most diverse places on the planet?

Steve can’t focus on anything other than how overwhelmingly sad that is.

“Thank you, darling,” his mom says, and it sounds like she might be crying, just a little. Steve prays that they’re tears of happiness, or something like that. He isn’t going to be upset at how nervous she’d been to come out - wow, his _mom_ had just come out to him; he’s going to need a while to fully process that - not when he thinks about how long she must have been hiding.

Steve draws back and sits down again, hugging his knees to his chest.

He takes a few moments to think, wanting - needing - to get his words out without stumbling over them. “Mom, I don’t mind at all, of _course_ I don’t. Thank you so much for telling me. I really - I’m so proud of you,” he ends up repeating, because it’s true.

She smiles, a little sadly - but with relief as well, he thinks. “Well. I suppose I knew that, deep down, but it’s nice to hear it.”

“Your family are all really Catholic, right?”

His mom looks at him with mild amusement. She had been crying, he thinks, but she isn’t right now. “Steve, _I’m_ really Catholic.”

“Well, yeah, but - you know what I mean.”

“If you’re asking whether they're the very conservative, homophobic type of Catholics, then yes, they are.”

“I’m sorry,” he says, knowing that those two little words aren’t nearly enough to make anything better, but needing to say them anyway.

She sighs, long and tired. “It doesn’t matter anymore. None of it does, really. But thank you.”

Steve frowns, instinctively wanting to protest her words but without knowing where to start. “It does matter,” he tries. “It’s an important part of you. And what if you want to date again, someday?”

He wouldn’t mind that at all; actually, he’d encourage it. He’s very conscious that even if he stays in New York for college, next year he’ll most likely be moving out of this apartment, and he hates the thought of leaving his mom to live on her own. 

“I doubt that’s going to happen,” she says, and Steve recognises the exact kind of slightly bitter self-deprecation that had flavoured similar statements of his own, back when he’d been sickly and insecure and couldn’t stop questioning Bucky as to why h - they wanted to hang out with him.

“Anyone would be lucky to have you, man or woman,” Steve says firmly, then recognises what’s wrong with that sentence. “Or someone else! Any person would be lucky to have you,” he corrects himself.

“That’s lovely of you to say.” Steve is excellent at translating bullshit responses, okay, given that he’s said more than a few of them himself over the years. He can tell that his mom doesn’t really believe his words are true - not yet. He can work on that, at least, now that he knows about it.

“This still feels like it’s the wrong way round,” his mom says with an amused little twist of her lips. 

Steve shrugs. “When have we ever cared about stuff like that?”

It’s true. He’d taken care of her when she was diagnosed with cancer, and kept doing it through the long months of operations and chemo and radiotherapy that had followed, just the same as she never hesitated to take care of him when his lungs had kept rebelling on him in his childhood. Steve doesn’t give a fuck if they don’t have a normal parent and child relationship; his mom is the most incredible person he knows and this conversation has only reinforced that.

She laughs quietly. “True. Go do the dishes, Steven Grant!”

Steve laughs as well - the idea that his mom would need to nag him before he’d do any household chores is just ridiculous. He isn’t going to stand by and watch her do all the work, no way.

“Have you eaten recently?” he asks, again knowing and not caring that this would be seen as an odd role-reversal by most of his peers.

“I could go for a bowl of that nice soup you make.”

“All my soups are nice. Except that one where I thought it would be a good idea to use up the cream that had gone off.”

She wrinkles her nose up, which doesn’t offend him at all - that smell had lingered in the apartment for days. “The lentil one,” she says, and Steve jumps up, already trying to remember whether he’d bought carrots the last time he’d gone grocery shopping.

“Steve,” his mom says, right before he’s about to head into the kitchen. He turns back. “Thank you.”

He smiles at her. “Love you,” he says, and goes to start dinner.

* * *

A few hours later, lying in bed, he picks up his phone and starts writing a text to Sam.

**Nat says you have a plan to help make Bucky feel better. Thanks :)**

Sam’s reply comes almost straightaway: **of course dude they’re my friend! night x**

The little, hateful part of Steve that had always been scared their new friends were going to take Bucky away from him - Bucky could have had their pick of friends growing up, after all, while Steve had a choice of precisely one, which meant he clung to that one with all the strength that was in him - maybe tries to make an appearance, but he doesn’t let it.

 _No-one can rely on one friend for everything,_ Nat had said, or something along those lines, and Steve knows she’s right.

He loves Bucky, always will, and that means that having more people around that love them too is a good thing, a great thing. 

He checks his alarm’s switched on, then rolls over, hoping that he falls asleep quickly tonight.

The sooner he goes to sleep, the sooner he can get to school and find out if Sam needs any help with his plan, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know why my chapters always end with someone trying to fall asleep but I guess that's a thing? Hope you liked Steve's chapter, he might not have another POV one but he'll still be an important part of the story, as will the other people in the main friendship group. 
> 
> Edited Jan 2017 to add *


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky - yep, definitely them, even in the almost-darkness Sam recognises that hair - looks up at him.
> 
> “Sam? What are you doing here?”
> 
> Sam isn’t at his most coherent right now, okay, and he’s using most of his brainpower to will his stomach into settling down.
> 
> “Sleeping,” is all he can think of to say, even though that’s blatantly no longer true.
> 
> “Oh. I’ll go,” Bucky says, and Sam can’t actually see their face, but he’d be willing to bet at least, say, ten dollars that the expression _puppy-dog eyes_ would not be out of place if he could.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my favourite chapter that I've written so far, I hope you like it too!
> 
> Chapter warnings: mention of a past death from AIDS-related complications.

* * *

Sam finally has a decent plan as to how everyone in the group is going to make it up to Bucky. Admittedly, no-one other than him realises there’s anything they need to be apologising for in the first place. And Sam isn’t going to be the one to tell them, but they’re still going to be part of his plan - they don’t actually need to know what his ulterior motive is, or even that one exists.

Well, one of them does.

Sam corners Tony in what the physics nerds insist on calling their ‘robotics lab,’ during the free period the two of them share. It’s actually a corner of one of the least-used science classrooms that’s strewn with Lego blocks, various wires and electronic bits and bobs, and - inexplicably - several Barbie dolls, but Sam isn’t going to be the one to bring down a fellow nerd, even though this really isn’t his area of expertise. 

Tony says that his parents had wanted him to have as normal a childhood as possible, which apparently means sending him to regular high school rather than to whatever elite academy has probably had his name on its waitlist since birth. Sam appreciates the concept, but when Tony starts wondering out loud if he could persuade his dad to invest a few hundred thousand dollars into improving the school labs, he never hesitates to point out that doing that would basically defeat the purpose of sending Tony here in the first place.

Sam’s pretty sure that Mr Stark is going to end up doing it anyway, but probably not until Tony graduates. That way it can be seen as a purely philanthropic gesture, instead of an act of nepotism.

Sam may have one or two feelings about the unfair distribution of wealth in the US, okay. Though even he will admit that Howard Stark has more than earned his millions; the future of clean energy technology would be looking a hell of a lot bleaker without him.

“Hi, Tony,” Sam says, hoping that Tony hasn’t sunk too far into his creative headspace, which Sam personally would like to rename his _regression to being five years old._

Tony hums to himself, absentmindedly fitting a motor onto a Lego propellor. “Hey. Do you think I should grow a goatee?”

Sam waits for the punchline, which doesn’t come.

 _Are you capable of that?_ Sam wants to ask, but decides to phrase it in a slightly less antagonistic-sounding way.

“Um. How often do you even need to shave?”

Tony gives his propellor a very defensive look, which is enough of an answer. Sam sighs.

“Look, you can grow a goatee when you’re rich as fuck and having a mid-life crisis,” he says, which he thinks is pretty generous of him. 

“I’m already rich as fuck,” Tony points out, and Sam has to admit that he has a decent point. “Can’t I have a quarter-life crisis?”

“You can, but not one where you grow a beard.” Sam is just making this bullshit up off the top of his head, but if it stops Tony from spending an hour a day shaping weird fluff growing out of his chin, he’s pretty sure the world will thank him. 

“I thought it might make me look more mature.” 

_In front of Pepper,_ Sam finishes inside his head.

“Nope. Sorry.”

“You don’t know that for sure. Who died and made you an expert on goatees?” Tony stops messing around with the Lego and reaches out for one of the Barbies, then immediately - what the actual hell - pops her head off and places it onto the propellor he’d been adding bits and pieces to.

For fuck’s sake.

“I had a favour to ask you, okay,” Sam says, trying to sound decisive. He’s not even going to make a comment about the decapitated Barbie, because he would like to leave high school with at some of his sanity intact. “Can we please get off the topic of shitty facial hair?”

“I don’t know why you think I’m going to be granting you any favours when you just insulted my potential future goatee,” Tony says in an annoyingly high-handed voice. “But sure, go ahead.”

“Can I borrow your house to host another Dungeons and Dragons night?”

“Fuck no,” Tony says instantly. “Natasha convinced you all to howl like demented wolves for ten minutes straight last time; my mom would murder me. There’s a lot of places to hide a body in a house as big as mine.”

Damn. 

“Please? It’s for a good cause.”

“Really? Starving orphans? World peace? Curing -”

“Cheering Bucky up,” Sam interrupts before Tony can really get going.

“Why? What’s wrong with them?”

Sam gives Tony a point for not hesitating for a moment over the pronoun, then wonders if by doing that he’s contributing to a culture that makes it seem like using trans people’s correct names and pronouns is an effort cis people make that they should be rewarded for, rather than just common fucking human decency. 

He makes a mental note: time for yet another google session when he gets home.

“Come on, Stark. They’ve been off lately, you can’t be that unobservant.”

Tony shrugs, which could mean anything. “How about, you can use my house to throw a normal teenage party. With illegal drinking and someone getting fingered under the pool table. But not on it, because it’s very expensive, and I don’t want to have to explain any stains.”

What the fuck? “That’s an extremely specific scenario,” Sam says, then regrets speaking immediately; he absolutely does not want any insight into why exactly Tony’s idea of a party involves - that.

“But yeah, okay, a party sounds good,” he adds quickly. “Thanks.”

He might mention to Nat that Tony is of the opinion that a party involving drunk teenagers and hopefully not-drunk sex would be less disruptive than anything involving her as a Dungeon Master.

He tries not to think about the one campaign where they’d all played around with the idea of calling Nat the Dungeon Mistress instead. He’s happy to be a feminist, but some things are better in theory than in practice.

“Don’t mention it,” Tony says. “Really. You know how I feel about people expressing their gratitude.”

Sam does know; it’s one of the things he likes about Tony.

The logic goes, according to Tony, that if he throws them all an expensive party, or pays for them to have dinner at some fancy restaurant, everyone else should treat it as being on about the same level as, say, Sam giving them a stick of gum, because Tony has so much money that it means roughly the same and should therefore be treated no differently. 

The stick of gum thing is an actual example that Tony has used before, and Sam had considered being offended by it before deciding quickly that it really wasn’t worth it.

Plus, no matter how much Tony claims that it’s just plain logic, Sam’s about ninety-nine percent sure that the majority of rich people definitely don’t see life that way, so he’s grateful that their group got landed with someone that does. Because it makes Tony a much easier person to like, not because it gets them all free stuff. Well, maybe a little of that.

“Can I invite people?” Tony asks, flipping a switch then scowling down at the tangle of wires when nothing happens.

Sam really doesn’t get Tony sometimes. “It’s your fucking house, of course you can invite people,” he says. “Who were you thinking?” He pauses for a second. “Other than Pepper, obviously,” he adds, and has the satisfaction of seeing Tony’s face go an unattractive shade of red.

Sam likes Tony just fine. Really. He does. He has totally, one hundred percent forgiven him for being kind of an asshole when Bucky had come out as non-binary.

Okay, so he honestly has forgiven him, especially since Bucky doesn’t seem to hold even a slight grudge. But, well, Tony can be kind of - abrasive, sometimes, and even though Sam knows that the guy has a heart of gold, the remarks he makes without even thinking them through still rub him the wrong way a lot of the time.

He’s working on it.

“Bruce and Jane,” Tony says, which Sam should have guessed. “And I guess Jane’s boyfriend, even though he doesn’t speak much English.”

Sam didn’t even know Jane was dating anyone. He’s usually pretty in the loop when it comes to school gossip, but he guesses he hasn’t been paying much attention to anything besides what he’s going to do to make it up to Bucky over the past few days. “Does she speak whatever language he does?”

“Nope,” Tony says. “He’s Swedish, or Dutch, or something. One of those Viking countries.”

“You definitely mean Danish, not Dutch.”

Tony untangles two wires from each other and tries flipping the switch again, with no effect. “Who cares about stuff like that?”

“Stuff like getting a country right? How about literally everyone? Especially people from Denmark and the Netherlands, I’m guessing.”

“Whatever, Wilson. I’m going to invent an artificial intelligence that can travel round with me and tell me every piece of knowledge humans have ever discovered. I don’t need to know all your geography bullshit.”

Sam decides that he’s not going to get into this right now, especially not when they only have five minutes left of their free period.

“Okay, moving on,” he says. “How about next Friday night, for the party?”

“Sure,” Tony says easily, and Sam can’t help but grin at him.

As he leaves the classroom, he thinks he sees the Barbie head spinning around with her hair flying in a circle, but he decides to pretend that no such sight had ever met his eyes.

He has a party to plan.

* * *

Sam is feeling very pleased with himself.

The party’s in full swing, nobody’s been penetrated in any way under a pool table - Thor, Jane’s boyfriend, has been loudly holding court in the games room, managing to entertain a small group of people even though Tony had been right; his English is very limited - and everyone seems to be at that excellent stage where they’re tipsy enough to be letting go of the usual restraints they fit themselves into at school, but not drunk enough that Sam has to worry about anyone falling over their own feet.

He has no idea how Tony had managed to convince his parents that this was a good idea - actually, he can make an educated guess. Phrases along the lines of ‘conventional high school experience’ and ‘textbook teenage rebellion phase’ had probably been thrown around. The Starks are fucking weird.

Then again, he supposes that if you already know your kid wants to act out a bit, letting them do it in a mostly-sanctioned way would be smarter than ignoring them completely until they go off the rails. Which is definitely something he’s worried about before when it comes to Tony, he’s not going to lie.

Sam looks around, feeling a bit too much like the mom of the group when he realises he’s doing it so that he can check in on how everyone’s doing.

Steve is talking to Sharon, which is hopefully good, but he can’t be sure since he has no idea how to lip-read. Steve could be making a complete fool out of himself; Sam’s looking forward to finding out tomorrow.

Helen and Betty are looking after the drinks table, and he spares a moment to hope that they aren’t trying any weird chemistry experiments on whatever cocktail they seem to be mixing up. Tony is hovering next to them, most likely making unhelpful suggestions - but it’s his house, so he’s welcome to make them, Sam guesses.

Nat and Clint are playing what looks like the most terrifyingly competitive game of Super Mario 2 that he's has ever seen. He's genuinely worried for the future of Tony’s TV. Or, well, that particular TV, since there’s no way it’s the only one in the house.

There’s a little circle of beanbags over to one side of the room, and Sam makes a beeline for them when he sees Bucky sitting on one. They aren’t on their own; Rhodey, Maria, Pepper and Bruce are all sat down as well, but they don’t seem to be joining in the conversation.

Which really isn’t any of Sam’s business.

He goes over and sits down, nodding hello to everyone. Nobody seems particularly drunk, which makes sense for this set of people. They aren’t really the type to care much about whatever high schoolers are supposed to be doing at a party with free alcohol - actually, he’s pretty sure that Maria’s mug is somehow filled with hot chocolate, which Sam is impressed by.

He has a beer himself, his third, but he isn’t trying to get drunk off it. It’s just something to hold, like he’s in some crappy teen movie and he’s been given it as a prop.

“Hey, Sam,” Pepper says. “We were just talking about what our plans are for next year. Care to share?”

 _Not really,_ he thinks, but he smiles at her and raises his beer a little in a salute. 

“Sure thing,” he says. “Not like we get enough of the future talk at school, eh?” He makes sure that the smile is still on his face, hoping that it will soften his words.

Seriously, though? He guesses that if he was going to expect anyone to talk about college applications at a party, it would be Pepper Potts, but he still wishes he’d never walked over.

“I applied for a track scholarship to NYU. I want to major in psychology,” he says, not needing to think about the words that have been tripping easily off his tongue for a couple months. It’s the question everyone asks once you hit this stage of life: what’s next? What are your plans? What will you do if every single one of them fails completely and you have no goals in life anymore?

He just wants to enjoy what’s left of his last year of high school, okay, which he realises might seem weird to most of his peers. Sam can understand the whole ‘get out as soon as you can mentality;’ school isn’t exactly a playground - ironically - for most people, but at the same time, well. 

He really hates the idea that he’s supposed to treat every stage of his life as just a stepping stone on the way to something bigger and better. What if he actually kind of likes where he is right now, as uncool as that would seem to most of the people he hangs out with?

“Excellent,” Pepper says, with an approving little nod. “I wish you the best of luck.”

That seems like the kind of statement he might expect from a distant aunt, but he thanks her anyway.

“And what about you, Bruce?” Pepper says - is she seriously going to go round the entire circle?

Sam isn’t disinterested in whatever Bruce Banner wants to do with his life, okay, but it’s not like he really knows the guy. Something about biology, he’s guessing; he thinks he remembers a brief scandal a couple of years ago when Bruce had brought some sample of a potentially deadly virus into the bio lab. 

While Bruce launches into a comparison of his preferred colleges, starting off hesitant but quickly gaining confidence as Pepper asks questions that would probably sound insightful if Sam was listening to them, Sam takes the opportunity to look properly at Bucky.

Who - help - is looking at him already.

Sam is _not_ going to be the one to make this awkward.

“Hey, what are your plans, anyway?” he says, realising that Bucky is the only person in his main friendship group that hasn’t shared their goals for the future yet. Or, not with Sam, anyway.

He’s aware that he’s basically doing the exact same thing that had just annoyed him when Pepper was the one asking, but he’s suddenly really curious.

And a bit worried, as well. Bucky definitely fits into the category of people who act like they can’t wait to leave high school, and Sam really hopes that doesn’t mean they want to go to college on the west coast or anything like that.

Too late, he realises that Bruce stopped talking a few seconds ago, which means that Sam has accidentally just put Bucky on the spot in front of five people. 

Shit.

Bucky doesn’t look too bothered, though, he thinks, or maybe Sam’s a bit more drunk than he wants to be and he just isn’t reading their expression right.

“I’m taking a year out,” Bucky says, which - Sam hadn’t been expecting that. “Get a job, save up a bit. I don’t even know if I want to go to college.”

Sam isn’t going to take his eyes off Bucky, but he’d bet good money that Pepper’s doing her best disapproving face right now.

“Bucky,” she begins, but is interrupted almost immediately by someone flopping into the spare beanbag next to Bruce.

“Hey, party peepers!” 

Sam looks over to see Bucky’s unexpected rescuer.

“Tony,” Bruce says. “Were you trying to say party people or party poopers? Because something definitely got lost along the way.”

Sam feels bad for ignoring Bruce’s college ramblings now; clearly he’s a great guy.

“Poop,” is all Tony says, before glancing with mild dismay towards Pepper. Probably he’s just realised that there are better one-liners to say in front of the person you claim is the love of your life.

“We were just talking about college stuff,” Sam says. He’s feeling generous, and Tony had lent him a house, which is no small matter. “You’re still planning on MIT, right?”

He knows way more about Tony’s plans for MIT than he wants to already, but Tony will never pass up a chance to talk about them, so it’s a safe question.

“Did you know I was accepted by them when I was fourteen?” Tony asks, very clearly speaking only to Pepper.

“That’s impressive,” she replies, in a tone that somehow manages to convey the opposite.

“Very!” Clearly Tony’s too wasted to notice such subtle things as tone and body language.

Time for Sam to intervene again. Hopefully this time it doesn’t backfire. “Ah, what do you want to do, Pepper?”

She looks pleased to be asked; maybe this entire conversation had just been because she wanted to be able to talk about her own goals.

“I was accepted early decision to Harvard,” she says matter-of-factly. Saying that sentence in a mostly casual way is impressive enough in itself, Sam thinks. “I’m going to double-major in Business Studies and Economics.”

_And then initiate your plan for world domination?_

“Awesome,” Sam says. “You’ll do great, I’m sure.”

He is sure. There’s plenty of his classmates that he doesn’t worry about in the slightest, and Pepper has the honour of heading up the top of that list.

“Maria, James,” Pepper says, and Sam glances at her in alarm before realising that she’s talking to Rhodey, not Bucky. “You’re the only ones who haven’t shared yet. Care to?”

Rhodey and Maria exchange a glance that, to Sam at least, seems like it’s weighted down by something a whole lot more serious than worries over college essays or scholarship applications. Now that he’s paying attention, he realises that the two of them have been almost completely silent the entire time he’s been here.

He’s feeling anxious suddenly without knowing why - which is always irritating - and he takes a long drink of his beer in an attempt to calm himself down.

Maria nods at Rhodey, who looks around at the rest of the group with an expression in his eyes that Sam can’t place, but which looks more than a little sad.

“We’ve both decided that we’re enlisting, after graduation,” he says, and - oh.

That’s - Sam wants to say it’s unexpected, but when he tries to focus over the haze of alcohol he realises that it isn’t, not really. Rhodey’s always seemed interested in Sam’s dad’s stories about his life as a soldier, and Maria already has experience volunteering at those weird army summer camps that teach kids combat skills and how to strip a gun with a blindfold on, or something.

It’s not just that, though. Sam knows more than most people about what it takes to make a good soldier or officer, and Rhodey and Maria - yeah, they’d be up there with the best after a few years, he’s pretty sure.

Assuming they make it that far, he thinks, then blames that morbid moment on the beer.

“That’s great,” Tony says, with the exact same inflection Sam’s pretty sure he would use if he was saying ‘My world is literally falling apart around me.’

Sam sees Pepper shoot Tony a concerned glance, but Tony misses it. Which is a shame, because the thought that Pepper cares about his feelings would probably be one of the only things that might cheer him up right now. Sam knows how close Tony and Rhodey are, even if he really doesn’t understand it.

“We’ve been talking it over for a long time,” Maria says evenly. “This isn’t something we take lightly.”

Sam wonders if there’s anything in life that Maria _does_ take lightly.

“You’ll both be excellent,” he says, looking first Maria and then Rhodey in the eye. “And we’ll send you care packages every month wherever you get deployed, okay, no arguing.”

* * *

The party doesn’t fall apart after that or anything; everyone still seems like they’re having a pretty good time. But Sam’s feeling a heaviness inside him that he can’t seem to shake, and when he realises that he’s looking at the bottle of cherry-flavoured vodka someone had brought as though it might help him feel less shitty, he decides that it’s probably time to call it a night.

Tony’s house has an actual _servants wing,_ which is beyond ridiculous. Admittedly, it goes unused now; the Starks do have some staff that come in to help them out - which is understandable; Sam really can’t imagine Tony’s mom or dad taking the time out of their day to clean their giant mansion from top to bottom - but none of them actually live in the building these days, except a couple of general maintenance guys that Sam has a strong suspicion are really there as security guards. 

Anyway, what that means in practice is that there are around twenty small bedrooms that the party guests can take their pick from. Sam wonders if anyone’s going to be losing their virginity tonight, then promptly tries to think about literally anything else.

He lets Steve - who’s drunker than Sam’s ever seen him, but he seems happy enough - know that he’s going to head to bed, then finds the most out of the way bedroom he can manage. He kicks his shoes off and leaves his jeans on the floor, then gets into the bed, knowing he should probably get up to drink a pint or so of water but really not having the energy to move.

It doesn’t take him long at all to fall asleep.

Unfortunately, it also doesn’t take long for someone to wake him - at least, Sam feels like he only closed his eyes five minutes ago when he jumps at the feeling of someone crawling into the bed beside him.

He makes a very startled noise that he hopes gets across his intended message of _what the fucking fuck this is my bed go find your own?_

The other person makes a noise that sounds even more shocked, and promptly jerks themself so far away from Sam that they manage to fall off the side of the bed.

Sam’s instincts have him up and moving much faster than he should be doing right now; Tony had convinced him to down a shot of something bright green and sour that he’s really regretting.

He looks over the edge of the bed, only to see -

“Bucky?” 

Bucky - yep, definitely them, even in the almost-darkness Sam recognises that hair - looks up at him.

“Sam? What are you doing here?”

Sam isn’t at his most coherent right now, okay, and he’s using most of his brainpower to will his stomach into settling down.

“Sleeping,” is all he can think of to say, even though that’s blatantly no longer true.

“Oh. I’ll go,” Bucky says, and Sam can’t actually see their face, but he’d be willing to bet at least, say, ten dollars that the expression _puppy-dog eyes_ would not be out of place if he could.

He flops back down onto the bed, shoving a few of the pillows behind his head and upper back - there’s way too many for one bed, if you multiply that by thirty bedrooms there must be - 

“I can’t do math when I’m drunk,” Sam says mournfully. “Bucky, come here and help me do math.”

Bucky lets out a small laugh. “Bet you say that to all the girls.”

Sam doesn’t know how to unpick that sentence. He isn’t even going to bother trying; he just waves his arm around in Bucky’s general direction, hoping that he’ll make contact eventually.

He does, but he’s pretty sure that it’s only because Bucky takes pity on him and climbs onto the bed, sitting cross-legged by Sam’s side.

Which is nice, sure, but not as nice as it _could_ be.

“Thought you wanted to sleep,” Sam says. “Can’t sleep sitting up. Not a bat.”

“Bats hang upside down.”

Whatever. “Not the point.”

Bucky moves very slowly, but they do lie down, ending up next to Sam - perfect - with their head at the height of his ribcage.

“Happy now?” they ask, and Sam is going to be mature and ignore the sarcastic tone.

“Nope,” he says, unable to believe how daring he’s being right now. “I always wanted a cat, you know?”

“Okay?”

Why can’t Bucky be a mind-reader? Oh, except that would be fucking terrible if they were, because then they’d be able to see all of Sam’s thoughts about them and his life would basically be over.

“I’m asking if I can stroke your hair,” he says, which - fuck, that sounds so fucking weird out loud.

“Um,” is all Bucky says, followed by a few seconds of silence which Sam really, really hopes he’s wrongly interpreting as awkward.

“Sorry,” he says, feeling only a little bit of self-pity. It would have been really nice to pet Bucky’s hair, okay, and there’s no way he would ever have been brave enough to ask when he was sober.

Oh well. At least this way he can blame this entire conversation on the alcohol. Or he could be a real dick and pretend he doesn’t remember it at all tomorrow.

Bucky reaches up and takes Sam’s hand, placing it on their head and moving in closer to Sam’s chest, all before his brain has caught up with what’s actually going on.

Sam is the luckiest person in the _world,_ seriously. He moves his fingers gently through Bucky’s hair, taking care not to tug too hard or to pull on any tangles. 

They both lie there in silence, and Sam feels like he could do this forever.

Then Bucky makes a sleepy little murmur, which is so fucking cute that Sam can’t decide if he hates it or loves it.

“Hey, Sam,” they say, and Sam thinks he can feel their breath on his ribcage, through his Uncanny X-Men t-shirt. He wills his dick to not react in any way to this whole situation, because that would be beyond embarrassing for both him and Bucky.

“Yeah?”

“Did you ever hear the John Lennon story about when he was asked what he wanted to be when he grew up?”

That’s random.

“Nope,” Sam says. “I don’t listen to your old white-boy music, you know that.”

Bucky pinches Sam’s side, not even close to being hard enough to hurt. “Hey, the Beatles were friends with Jimi Hendrix. Anyway, I don’t even like them that much. I just - I dunno, I got it stuck in my head tonight.”

Sam smiles, not caring if it’s too revealing since Bucky can’t see it anyway. “Go on, what’s the story?”

Bucky is silent for a moment. “It’s not much of one. Just, yeah, I think his teacher asked him that when he was a kid, or something. And guess what his answer was?”

“I have no idea,” Sam says. He’s feeling much too lazy to either attempt a guess or come up with a joke right now.

“He said he wanted to be happy, when he grew up,” Bucky says in a wistful-sounding voice. 

Sam isn’t even a bit surprised that Bucky is one of _those_ drunk people - maybe not a sad drunk, exactly, but one of the introspective kinds, who start thinking about the mysteries of life as soon as they’re a bit tipsy.

He hopes that he isn’t somehow taking advantage of them by listening to them now, when they might not have as much of a filter stopping the thoughts going through their mind from leaving their mouth.

“Sounds like a good goal,” Sam says. “He was still an abusive asshole, though.”

Bucky pinches Sam again. “Jerk. But, okay, true.”

They lie there in silence again for a few minutes. Sam is in a weird state of mind; physically, he’s tired, and mentally he probably is as well, but at the same time he feels sort of electrified, like there’s a current running through his body - which he can feel most strongly in every point that’s connected to Bucky. 

“Can I ask you something?” Bucky says, their voice coming out soft.

Usually, nothing good comes of someone feeling the need to ask you whether they can ask a question, rather than just saying it straight out, but Sam doesn’t feel like caring about that right now.

“Sure,” he says, letting a strand of Bucky’s hair slip through his fingers. It’s so nice. He wishes they didn’t wear it tied back all the time. 

“What are you most afraid of?”

Wow, this is turning into a much more profound conversation than Sam had been expecting. Not that it’s a bad thing, necessarily; he just wishes that he could be certain that he would remember all of it after a few hours sleep.

Sam thinks about it. “I feel like I should say not getting into college, or dying, or something,” he begins, then stops when Bucky makes a weird snorting noise that was probably supposed to be a laugh. 

“Jesus, Hermione,” they say. “Get your fucking priorities in order. Those two things should definitely have been listed the other way around.”

Sam laughs too, because, well, Bucky may have a small point there. “Hermione was always my favourite,” he admits.

“Obviously. I liked her too, but she wasn’t my favourite. Have you heard all the headcanons about her being black?”

Sam nods before he remembers that Bucky can’t see his face. “Yeah. That’s pretty cool. Would be better if it was actually made clear in the book, but I still like the idea.”

“Same.”

“So who’s your favourite character?”

This is not an unimportant question. Sam is a firm believer that you can tell a lot about a person by their thoughts on Harry Potter. He always imagines that if he ever went speed-dating, his first question - well, okay, second; he admits that someone’s name is maybe a more crucial piece of information - would be about what Hogwarts house someone would want to be sorted into.

Sam is probably not going to go speed-dating anytime soon.

“Tonks,” Bucky says, and - oh. Sam’s hand stills in Bucky’s hair for a second while his mind races through some of the implications behind that.

“She’s pretty cool,” he says lightly, just so that the conversation doesn’t die.

“I know you’re thinking it’s because of the whole Metamorphmagus thing,” Bucky says, not tripping over the word for a second, which impresses Sam way more than he’s ever going to admit. “But it’s not just that. She just - she was so fucking weird, y’know, she could make her nose turn into a duck beak, but she always seemed like one of the most normal people in the whole series. To me, anyway.”

Sam thinks about that. “I know what you mean, I guess,” he says slowly, hoping that he and Bucky are thinking along the same lines. “She wasn’t comic relief, or not just that, but she - I guess she was kind of one of the only characters who treated everyone the same way, even if they were a lot more powerful than she was.”

“Exactly,” Bucky says. “Hey, you never answered me. We got sidetracked by Harry Potter.”

“Hmm,” Sam says, feeling just on the edge of too drowsy to concentrate properly. Another few minutes and he’ll be drifting off to sleep, he’s pretty sure. “Answered what?

“What’s your biggest fear?”

Well, Sam’s definitely awake now.

He could make something up. It’s unlikely that Bucky would guess it was a lie, not in their half-asleep, tipsy state - and even if they did, Sam doubts they’re the sort of person who would call him out on it. Bucky knows what it’s like to want to keep some things private, probably even more than most people.

But he finds, when he thinks about it, that he honestly doesn’t want to do that.

“Right now? Um, coming out to my mom,” he says, and then holds his breath.

Bucky tenses up a bit, but doesn’t move other than that.

“Coming out? As what?” they ask, then immediately shake their head, which feels weird when their face is half pressed against Sam’s ribcage. “Wait, don’t answer that if you don’t want to. None of my business.”

“I brought it up, it’s fine,” Sam says, realising that this will be the first time he’s actually talked about this out loud. “I don’t even know, anyway. I meant in, like, a sexuality way. Nothing to do with my gender. But I’m not sure what I am.”

“But you’re not straight?”

“Definitely not that,” Sam says, unable to believe that this is actually happening.

“I have to ask you something,” Bucky says, and Sam’s mind instantly starts trying to guess what might be coming next. “Did you ever have a minor sexuality crisis over Steve?”

Sam makes some kind of strangled noise that’s halfway between a laugh and a groan. That had really not been what he was expecting - hoping? - to hear. “Oh my god, Bucky, you don’t want to know. Seriously.”

“Knew it,” Bucky says. “He’s so annoying. He has the fucking worst self-esteem about what he looks like, even though he could be a model if he wanted to.”

Sam can’t let that go without taking the chance to ask something he’s way too curious about. “Um, did you ever have a crush on him?”

Too late, he realises that he doesn’t actually know anything about Bucky’s sexuality. 

“Nah. I love him, but not like that. We were so close as kids, you know? Maybe in another universe.”

“Makes sense. I think he’s straight, anyway,” Sam points out, though he knows that there isn’t any way you can tell that if someone hasn’t told you.

Hell, most of their friends might say that Sam was straight if asked - maybe even all of them, other than Bucky after tonight. And Nat, he’d guess, because she prides herself on knowing everything about everyone, and she’s the person he spends most time with at school so he’d be surprised if she hadn’t ever clocked him checking out a guy.

“Probably,” Bucky says, not sounding all that invested in Steve’s sexuality, which is fair enough.

Sam can’t be bothered coming up with another comment, so he just focuses on double-checking that he’s untangled every single knot from Bucky’s hair.

“Hey, your mom’s religious, right?” Bucky asks, and Sam remembers the question that had started them on this topic in the first place.

“Yeah,” he says, knowing that he could just leave his explanation there and that Bucky would make their own assumptions. “But that’s not why she’d hate me being - can I say queer? You okay with that?”

“You could use it for yourself even if I wasn’t,” Bucky says, which Sam makes a mental note of. “But yeah, I call myself that too. I have no fucking clue what my sexuality is.”

“Glad to know I’m not the only one who’s confused as hell,” Sam says.

“Well, I’m probably confused in a different way to you,” Bucky says. “My issues are more to do with the language than anything else. Like, how do you define same-gender attraction when you don’t even know what your gender is, or if you have one?”

Shit, Sam had never thought about that. He has so much to learn still.

“Feel free to ignore this,” Bucky continues, which makes Sam feel a tiny stirring of paranoia, mostly tamped down by the lingering effects of alcohol and exhaustion. “But you said your mom wouldn’t like it, except it’s not because she’s religious. I guess I’m kind of wondering why you’re so sure?”

Does Sam actually want to talk about this? With Bucky? Or at all?

Yeah, he does, he realises with a small shock after a few moments of introspection.

This is a little different than their coming out conversation; he’d been assuming that he would have to have one of those with someone, eventually. But this - he wasn’t sure he would ever want to share this with anyone, and he has to take a moment to get his thoughts in order before he starts to speak.

“It’s because of her brother - my uncle,” he begins slowly, glad that Bucky can’t see his expression right now. “He was gay.”

Bucky makes a tiny movement with their hand, and Sam knows that they registered the fact that Sam had used the past tense rather than the present.

“He - this isn’t really a long story, I’m just going to say it,” Sam continues, then takes a deep breath. “He died of AIDS-related complications. In 1989.”

“Fuck,” Bucky mutters, and Sam isn’t sure if he was meant to hear it or not. “I’m so sorry, Sam.”

“Yeah. I mean, I never knew the guy, obviously, but it messed my mom up real bad. I don’t even know all the details, but it had a huge effect on her life - still does, I’m pretty sure.”

“I can’t even imagine,” Bucky says quietly. “I sometimes think about how lucky I am - we are, I mean - to be growing up now instead of twenty years ago.”

“God, I know,” Sam says fervently, having had the exact same thought more than a few times.

“I guess it makes sense that your mom wouldn’t react too well to you coming out. Not that - it still sucks, though.”

Sam sighs. “Yeah. It’s not that she’s homophobic, exactly. But she’d be so scared of something bad happening to me if she knew I was queer that I’m not sure I ever want to come out to her, really.”

“But what if you end up with a boyfriend?”

 _I don’t want a boyfriend, though. I want - the best word would probably be partner, maybe?_ But there’s no way he can say that out loud without Bucky guessing a hell of a lot more than he wants them to. “I guess I’ll cross that very unlikely bridge when I come to it,” Sam says instead. “I feel like my dad knows, though. Or suspects, at least, I don’t know.”

“Really? What makes you think that?”

A moment too late, Sam remembers that the reason he thinks it has to do with the person who’s currently half-lying across him.

“Just something he said the other day. I’m probably overthinking it.”

“I hope your mom would be okay with it, if you ever did tell her,” Bucky says quietly.

“Thanks. I hope so too.” 

Sam can feel the hazy tiredness he’d been falling into before creeping up on him again, and this time he lets himself sink deeper. 

His hand relaxes against Bucky’s hair, and he makes no effort to move it.

He falls asleep between one breath and the next.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Nothing to do with the story, feel free to ignore): I don't have any friends either online or IRL that know I write fanfic, which means that whoever clicked on this fic first was the first person in the world other than me to read it. And I know that not everyone wants to comment on fics and I completely understand, but I would love so much if maybe someone could leave even just a :) if you like it and :( if you don't or something. (Thank you to AcideCookie for the comment on chapter 1!) I just would rather know if people are clicking, starting to read and hating it, because then at least I can change things up for all the unwritten chapters/go back and edit. Sorry if this is horrible ao3 etiquette, there is no obligation to comment/kudos! I just started feeling a bit worried :s
> 
> Thank you for reading <3
> 
> PS we have now met Sam's dad, Bucky's mom and Steve's mom and yes we will be meeting Sam's mom for sure!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky wakes up because their pillow starts moving.
> 
> They clumsily reach out and pat it gently to make it stop, only remembering that a defining characteristic of pillows is that they’re usually stationary when they’ve already done it.
> 
> “Um, morning,” his pillow says, and Bucky tries to jerk their head up but is stopped by the hand still resting on it.
> 
> “Sam,” they say, wincing at how scratchy their voice sounds. “Ah - sorry.”
> 
> They aren’t even sure what they’re apologising for, but it seems like the right thing to say.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PEOPLE. I don't know what to say?! I was really not having the best of days yesterday, and your comments made it into a great one, thank you so so much! I'm so glad people are liking this fic, I'm enjoying writing it as well. I hope you like the rest! Small note: my fics tend to go fluff-angst-fluff and with this chapter we are starting to head towards the angsty middle of that sandwich, so if you would rather bookmark this and wait till it's no longer a WIP now would be a good time.
> 
> Chapter warnings: homophobic abuse, some violence/blood, eating disorders (specifically bulimia), brief mention of suicide. Please read the end notes for clarifications and a full chapter summary if you feel you would prefer to skip this one. Or you're always more than welcome to message me if you're unsure how graphic anything is (the answer is almost always not very, but there will be exceptions).
> 
> I don't write fics without happy endings, in case anyone is feeling nervous about continuing.
> 
> Again: a million thank yous to my lovely commenters, you are responsible for me walking round for several hours with a giant smile on my face <3<3<3

* * *

Bucky lies against Sam for a long time, well after they start to feel the change in rhythm of the rise-and-fall of his chest and hear the soft, raspy breaths that mean he’s fallen asleep.

The faint buzz they’d got from the two JD-and-cokes Tony had pressed into their hand has long since faded, but they don’t mind. It’s nice, actually, having a clear head right now. It means they can focus on memorising every single moment of this, of how it feels to be pressed against Sam, warm and close and safe.

Bucky doesn’t regret anything about their sleepy conversation, and if they were religious they’d be praying right now that Sam’s going to feel that way as well, come the morning. The alternative - that their shared ramblings and half-whispered confessions will go ignored or forgotten - doesn’t bear thinking about.

They hope that they maybe made Sam feel a little better. Bucky can’t imagine what it would be like to know with certainty that their mom would reject them for being queer. Sure, the not knowing isn’t exactly a picnic, but it at least leaves open the possibility that she might not mind too much. Might even accept it, if Bucky ever stopped being a coward and actually opened up to her.

From what Sam was saying, it sounds like he might have that particular avenue closed to him forever, which is - Bucky can’t think of a word other than just plain _sad._

Sam’s hand is still in their hair, not tangled up, just resting there lightly. It feels nice.

Bucky hopes this is okay, them lying next to Sam still even when he’s asleep. They could easily get up and find another room; they’d only picked this one because they didn’t think anyone else would have made the effort to go this far into the house.

Sam Wilson, defying expectations as always.

Bucky doesn’t really know what to do with the revelation that Sam isn’t straight. They can’t help but feel hopeful, even though _queer_ obviously doesn’t mean _he wants to date you._

They aren’t even sure that they do want to go out with Sam. They like him a lot, and they’re attracted to him, but actually dating? There are so many things that could go wrong in that scenario, and Bucky would way rather keep Sam as a friend than risk losing him altogether.

This is all irrelevant, anyway, because the likelihood that Sam would want to date them is probably very small.

Bucky tugs the bedcovers properly over themself and manages to arrange them over Sam without covering their face - they could just move further up the bed, but they don’t want to wake Sam up.

Maybe they won’t sleep tonight; it’s always impossible to know for sure. Lying by Sam might make it that much harder, with them hyper-focused on the connection between their two bodies.

Or maybe it will make it easy.

* * *

Bucky wakes up because their pillow starts moving.

They clumsily reach out and pat it gently to make it stop, only remembering that a defining characteristic of pillows is that they’re usually stationary when they’ve already done it.

“Um, morning,” his pillow says, and Bucky tries to jerk their head up but is stopped by the hand still resting on it.

“Sam,” they say, wincing at how scratchy their voice sounds. “Ah - sorry.”

They aren’t even sure what they’re apologising for, but it seems like the right thing to say.

“For what?” Bucky glances up at Sam. It’s really hard to tell when he’s blushing, for obvious reasons, but they wonder if now is one of those times. “Far as I remember, I’m the one that basically dragged you up here to cuddle with me,” Sam continues, sounding way less embarrassed than Bucky would be if they were the one saying a sentence like that. “So _I’m_ sorry.”

Pretty much everyone can tell when Bucky goes bright red, which they do as soon as they start thinking about last night. They bury their head in the pillow under them unconsciously, then remember - shit, that’s not a pillow, that’s Sam’s stomach.

Sam lets out a long, low groan, and Bucky jerks their head back. They sit up, not wanting to accidentally hurt Sam again.

“Are you okay?” they ask quickly.

Sam lets out a small laugh that sounds more than a little pained. Fuck. “I’m good,” he says. “You didn’t hurt me.”

Sam sits up as well, though instead of taking a cross-legged position, like Bucky has, he moves back against the headboard and draws his knees into his chest. Bucky frowns. Sam’s definitely looking embarrassed now.

They’re missing something, and they can’t figure out what it is.

“Are you hungover?” they ask Sam; it would make sense if that was what’s wrong.

Sam shakes his head, and Bucky sees him tighten his arms around his knees. “Nope. All good.”

Something occurs to Bucky, and they know their eyes go wide with shock. 

“Fuck off,” Sam says, not sounding angry, just a bit embarrassed and maybe kind of grumpy. “It’s _normal,_ okay.” 

Bucky actually doesn’t get morning wood that often, but they know it really is perfectly normal, and also that it probably has absolutely nothing to do with their presence. “Sorry,” they say, trying to sound reassuring. “Um, I can go?”

Sam sighs. “It’s fine. I just really need to take a piss.”

Bucky is expecting Sam’s next words to be _can you turn around so I can get up,_ or something, so when Sam unfolds himself from his seated position and swings his legs off the bed, giving Bucky a very clear view of what exactly he’d been hiding, they accidentally let out a small squeaking noise.

“Shut up,” Sam says, reaching over and grabbing his jeans, stepping into them and pulling them up his legs in a very distracting way - which makes no sense, surely you’re supposed to get turned on by people _undressing,_ not putting their clothes back on?

Sam winces when he tries to zip his jeans up, and Bucky feels their face turn what is undoubtedly an even brighter shade of red than before.

“Stay here, okay,” Sam says. “Or go to the bathroom, whatever, and then come back. Please?”

“Sure,” Bucky finds themself saying, even though all they want to do is ask _why?_

Sam heads out, and Bucky lies back down on the bed. The image of Sam’s tented boxers is still about as vivid in their mind as if it was plastered across the ceiling of the little bedroom.

They try to think about literally anything else, since they don’t exactly want to be in that state themself when Sam returns. It’s not an easy task.

In fact, it’s quite a _hard_ one, Bucky thinks to themself, and then swears loudly.

“G’morning to you too,” Sam says, walking back into the room. 

Bucky is _not_ going to glance down at his crotch, okay, because they’re better than that.

“I didn’t even drink much and I feel like crap,” they say, sitting up and glaring a little at Sam. “How do you look so awake after that green thing Tony made you have?”

Sam winces, looking a bit less healthy at Bucky’s words. “Ouch. I’d forgotten about that one.”

Bucky swallows, unable to stop themself from feeling anxious at hearing that. “Do you think you’ve forgotten anything else?”

Sam sits down next to them, not as close as they’d been last night, but not as far apart as they would usually sit. “I remember you, if that’s what you mean.”

Oh.

“And - everything we talked about?”

Bucky doesn’t know why they’re pushing this; they’re barely even awake yet. But - they want to know, almost _need_ to, and if Sam’s going to reject them or turn around and say that no, he doesn’t remember and he doesn’t want to, it would be better to get it over and done with.

Then they could go curl up somewhere and feel sorry for themself for the next century.

“I’m pretty sure,” Sam says easily. “I’m fine with you knowing all that about me, if that’s why you look like you want to throw up. I wasn’t that drunk, I knew what I was saying.”

“Okay. Good,” Bucky says, relieved almost beyond words.

They can’t help but remember one of their trains of thought from last night, and they don’t know if they’re brave enough to ask Sam anything but they don’t want to let it go. What if a moment like this never comes round again? What if they go through the rest of the school year without saying anything, and then Sam heads off to do amazing things at college, and Bucky is left behind with a sore heart and a fading memory of Sam’s hand stroking through their hair?

“Bucky?”

Shit. They don’t know how much of their thoughts are showing on their face, but from Sam’s concerned expression they can guess that it’s more than they’d like. More than zero, in other words.

“It’s nothing,” they say quickly, knowing that the casual tone they’d been going for had definitely not been achieved.

“Alright. Hey, want to go wake Steve up by yelling really loudly in his ear?”

That sounds fun - no, wait. “Ah. Him and Sharon were getting pretty cosy last night. So maybe not the best idea.”

Sam frowns. “He was kind of drunk when I last saw him.”

Bucky realises what their previous words had sounded like they were implying. “Oh, no, not like that. Cosy for Steve, I mean. I’d be surprised if they even held hands.”

“How adorable.” Bucky loves how Sam kind of sounds like he really means _how sickening._ They definitely sympathise; Steve’s been pining over Sharon for way too long now.

They’re going to ignore how hypocritical it is for them to be throwing any stones at pining people in glass houses - or something, whatever, they really aren’t awake enough to figure out a metaphor that makes sense.

“Want to go find coffee instead?” Bucky finds themself saying.

Sam looks surprised for a second. Bucky holds their breath.

“Sure,” Sam says. “Like, from Tony’s kitchen? Or at a coffee shop?”

Bucky had just meant from the kitchen, but now that Sam’s brought up that second possibility they can’t stop thinking about how date-like it sounds.

“Up to you,” they say carefully, not wanting to give away too much.

Sam shrugs. “There’s a good place round the corner. Once we’ve walked eight miles to get off Tony’s fucking drive, anyway.”

Bucky laughs at that; the Starks’ drive is only a few hundred metres, but even that is kind of a ridiculous length when you live in New York City. They stand up and hunt around for their shoes; they had thought they remembered everything about last night but that’s one memory that seems to be missing.

“They’re outside,” Sam says, and Bucky looks at him blankly. “Your shoes? You left them right outside the door, no clue why.”

Oh. Bucky also has no idea why they’d done that. Maybe they’d subconsciously thought they were at home; their mom hates when people keep their shoes on in the apartment.

“Thanks,” they say, running a hand through their hair and then blushing as they remember another hand doing the same thing.

“You don’t wear it down much,” Sam says casually. “Probably why drunk me wanted to pet it, which in the light of day I admit was a bit weird.”

Bucky almost never wears their hair down, it’s true, though they hadn’t been expecting to hear that anyone else had picked up on that. They’re guessing that Sam thinks it’s because they were feeling extra confident last night, or something along those lines, when in reality they’d accidentally snapped their hair-tie while re-doing their ponytail and hadn’t cared enough to ask one of the girls if they had a spare.

They glance up at Sam, who looks slightly nervous, and Bucky remembers that they should probably actually answer him. “Not weird,” they say, even though maybe it kind of had been. “Or, well. I didn’t mind, anyway, else I wouldn’t have let you.”

“Alright. Hurry the fuck up, I need caffeine.”

Bucky opens the door to see, yep, their shoes neatly lined up. They put them on, then wave their arms in a little _ta-da_ kind of motion. “Ready. And you don’t even like coffee that much, don’t lie.”

Sam falls into step beside them, pulling out his phone and frowning when he presses it and nothing happens. “Crap. I need to text my mom. And I do so like coffee.”

Bucky checks their phone isn’t dead as well, then passes it to Sam when it lights up. “You can use mine, if you remember her number.” Sam immediately starts typing. “You always get hot chocolate whenever anyone offers hot drinks,” they point out, hoping that isn’t an odd thing to have noticed about someone.

“Thanks,” Sam says absentmindedly, then hits send. “Just so she doesn’t worry that I’m lying hungover in a ditch somewhere.” They head out of a side door - not even the only one; Bucky’s been here more than a few times and they still can’t get their head around how massive Tony’s house is - and towards the main gates. “I still like coffee, okay, but hot chocolate is just superior in every respect. Can’t argue with the facts.”

Bucky stumbles slightly over nothing as they notice how close Sam’s hand is to brushing the back of theirs. “Hot chocolate doesn’t have caffeine,” they say, trying to remember how they normally swing their arms when they walk. 

“Does so. All chocolate does. And it has sugar, and doesn’t taste like something died in my mouth.”

“Hah! I knew you secretly hated coffee,” Bucky says, probably more triumphantly than such a small victory should warrant. “Ah - how do we actually get out of this thing?”

 _This thing_ being the two large, iron gates that have an intercom connected so that they can be opened remotely from inside the house. Which is very impressive and all that, but Bucky has no idea what time whoever opens them starts work, and they don’t want to accidentally wake Mr and Mrs Stark up.

“We can just climb over them,” Sam says, which is the absolute last thing Bucky was expecting him to say.

“What - no we can’t. They probably have motion sensors, or something!”

Sam laughs. “They don’t have motion sensors, this isn’t a spy film. There’s a camera, but everyone knows who we are. And we’re going out, not in, so it’s not like they’ll care much anyway.”

“We could be stealing something,” Bucky says weakly, already looking at the gates to spot the easiest footholds.

“Well, you’re with a black guy, so if anyone accuses us of petty larceny you can just point the finger at me and everyone will believe you.”

Sam pulls himself up and over the gate easily, straddling it at the top for a second and then jumping neatly down the other side, all while Bucky is trying to think of any response at all that they can make to that.

“You’re thinking way too hard,” Sam says from the other side of the bars. “Come on. Leap of faith. Sort of literally.”

Bucky shakes their arms out and then reaches up. It actually is easy to climb up, and instead of trying Sam’s jump they decide to just climb back down the other side. There’s one moment where they miss their footing a little and slip, but then Sam’s steadying them, and finally their feet are on the ground.

And one of their hands is clasping one of Sam’s.

“Um.”

Sam looks at their hands. “Yeah, you kind of grabbed onto me there.” 

Now is the moment when both of them should be letting go.

Bucky doesn’t move.

Neither does Sam.

A few seconds go by where Bucky’s brain does nothing but scream at them incoherently. Then Sam drops his arm down and sort of twists their hands around, keeping contact but turning Bucky’s palm so that their fingers are in the perfect position to link in-between Sam’s.

Which they immediately do, in an action that seems so instinctive Bucky would swear they hadn’t actually had any control over it.

“So,” Sam says, drawing the word out slowly.

Bucky sets off walking. “So?” they say, and it isn’t even defensive, the way it was kind of supposed to be. It’s very hard to feel properly defensive about anything when your hand is being held by Sam Wilson, they’re finding.

* * *

Bucky’s good mood from their almost-maybe-sort-of date with Sam lasts them through the entire weekend. Unfortunately, two hours of joking around and gossiping about all their friends - over mugs of excellent hot chocolate, because Bucky had definitely won that one - isn’t enough to keep their spirits high when they step through the school entrance and are immediately slammed into by someone who feels like they bench press tanks for a living.

Bucky goes down instantly, but they aren’t hurt by the fall. They can’t help but swear, though, when they realise that their backpack hadn’t been zipped up and that most of its contents are now decorating the hallway floor. There’s a few minutes to go before first bell, but anyone else that had made it to school early will be treading all over Bucky’s history project if they don’t watch their step.

For fuck’s sake. They don’t swear out loud, though, they hadn’t really been looking where they were going - they’d been too occupied with wondering if it was biologically possible for their hand to still be tingling from the faint pressure of Sam’s - and them getting knocked down could easily have been accidental.

“Saw you and Wilson getting cosy this weekend,” a voice that Bucky wishes they didn’t recognise says from somewhere above them.

Probably not an accident, then.

“Fuck off, Rumlow,” they say, gathering their papers together as quickly as possible. They’re trying to ignore the implications of what he’s saying. Fuck, Rumlow’s family are rich, aren’t they? He probably lives in the same neighbourhood as the Starks. Shit.

Why hadn’t they been more careful?

 _Because we shouldn’t fucking have to be,_ Bucky thinks viciously, shoving their things back into their bag, not even caring that they’ll end up crumpled.

“Course, I knew you were a fag. Can spot that a mile off.” Bucky accidentally clenches their fist, and a probably important sheet of notes rips in half. “But Wilson? Shit, he seemed alright.”

“Fuck _off,_ ” Bucky repeats numbly, hating that they can already feel tears building up behind their eyes. They never used to be this emotional, for fuck’s sake. Two years ago they might have been able to come up with some clever retort that would stop Rumlow in his tracks.

Right now? They can barely focus on how to form words at all.

They stand up and swing their backpack onto their shoulder, trying hard to stand tall.

They’ve actually been in a fair few physical fights before, almost all of them a result of Steve mouthing off to someone three times his size when they were kids. But it’s been more than a while since Steve needed anyone to help him fight his battles, and these days Bucky tries as hard as they can to keep their head down.

“It’s none of your business,” they say in their best attempt at a firm voice, hoping that Rumlow isn’t in the mood to throw any punches.

Who are they kidding? They’ve practically never seen the guy _out_ of that mood.

“Hey, guess what?” Rumlow says in a much-too-casual tone that sets Bucky’s teeth on edge. “My older brother goes to college with Sarah Wilson. Isn’t that an interesting fact?”

Bucky goes very, very still. That’s - that’s too far. Not that it was okay for Rumlow to shove them over, or throw slurs at them and Sam, of course not. But threatening to out Sam to his family?

Way, way too far.

“If you dare,” they begin, startled to hear their own voice sounding so cold. “I will make your life a living hell. I swear it.”

Rumlow’s eyes widen, and Bucky wonders with an odd kind of detachment whether he might actually be afraid of them, just a little.

They should probably be worried that their main thought right now is _I hope so._ Their heartbeat is racing through their ears, and either they’re drunk on adrenaline or just incredibly angry, because they aren’t feeling even a trace of fear anymore.

Then someone grabs Bucky from behind, turns them to face the wall, and slams their face into it before they can even begin to struggle.

“The _fuck,_ ” they hear Rumlow say, though the words sound like they’re coming from a much further distance than they should be.

“He was bothering you, right, boss?”

Bucky can’t place the voice for a second, then realises that it’s John Garrett. The guy who’s infamous for being the frontrunner for the ‘most likely to go to prison’ spot in the yearbook.

They couldn’t care less about that right now, though, because the amount of blood pouring out of their nose is beginning to be just a bit terrifying.

“You fucking idiot,” Rumlow says, and Bucky assumes it’s aimed at them until Garrett makes a protesting noise. “Shit - Fury’s coming. He probably saw you, why the fuck would you do that?”

Bucky can’t find the energy to care about Fury right now. They’re huddled on the floor, and they manage to reach their hand up and feel their nose just enough to check that it doesn’t seem to be broken, but even that slight touch makes the pain start radiating through their head even more than it already had been.

“What the _hell_ is going on here?”

Dr Fury is the only teacher who Bucky hears swear on a regular basis. They aren’t entirely sure how he gets away with it, but they suspect it’s just because all the other teachers are too afraid to tell him to stop.

“Nothing,” Rumlow tries, and if Bucky’s face didn’t feel like it was on fire they might be laughing at that blatant lie. “Just a misunderstanding.”

A misunderstanding? Yeah, if that’s what you call a fucking _hate crime,_ Christ.

“Barnes,” Fury says, sounding like he reached the end of his rope several minutes ago. “Nurse’s office, now. Rumlow, Garrett, with me. We’re going to see the headmaster.”

Shit.

This is bad. And Bucky’s wondering whether they’d be joining Rumlow and Garrett on their way to possible suspension right now if it wasn’t for the small detail of their nose gushing out what feels like a pint of blood right now.

They make their way down the corridor towards the crappy school health centre, feeling numb enough to not care about the drops of blood that fall to the floor as they walk. Which is shitty of them really, they think vaguely - Stan is a great janitor, and he definitely doesn’t get paid enough to clean up actual _blood,_ Jesus.

Nurse Temple doesn’t roll her eyes when she sees them, which is nice of her.

“James,” she says, and Bucky winces slightly.

“It’s Bucky,” they say, not bothering to second-guess what her reaction will be. Some teachers don’t give a fuck either way, some actively learn student nicknames, and some act like you’d have to pry the names written on the official registers from their cold dead hands.

“Bucky, sorry,” she says. Bucky knew they liked her for a reason. “What seems to be the problem?”

She’s already busying herself getting out cotton balls and gauze, and putting on a pair of disposable gloves, so Bucky guesses that it’s safe to assume she’s joking around with them.

“Oh, nothing much,” they say in their best attempt at a casual voice. “Bit of a nosebleed, is all.”

“I can see that.” She comes back over and gently presses something to the base of their nose. “Hold that there, and tilt your head forward, not back.” They obey her automatically. “Now, is this is the sort of nosebleed that was brought on by anyone’s fists?”

“Nope,” Bucky says, completely truthfully. Garrett hadn’t punched them in the face, which is clearly what Nurse Temple had been getting at.

“Hmm,” she says, not sounding very convinced. Being a high school nurse, she’s probably very experienced in recognising when someone is bullshitting her. “Here, take a seat. Keep doing that and it should stop on its own. I can find you a clean t-shirt to wear as well.”

Bucky awkwardly glances down at their torso, still keeping the absorbing cloth in place. Shit. “I look like I’m an extra in a horror movie.” They liked this t-shirt, as well. It says ‘My Muggle Friends Just Don’t Understand,’ which is both an excellent Harry Potter reference and also - to Bucky, they highly doubt anyone else would think of it that way - a subtle reminder that they still don’t know any other trans people in real life. 

That they know of, obviously. 

Damn. They’re pretty sure the t-shirt had been offered in red as well, when they’d bought it online. They should have gone with that option - not that they should update their wardrobe to reflect the possibility of them being the victim of any more hate crimes, that would be beyond sad.

“I’ll throw it in the washer with some stain remover,” Nurse Temple offers. “Might get the worst out.”

Bucky sighs. “Thanks.” Fuck. This was supposed to be such a good day. They were going to ask Sam out, for real. 

Well. Okay, they were going to think a lot about it, and go over the very long pros and cons list in their mind, and then _maybe_ they were going to actually do it. But still.

Nurse Temple glances at her watch and makes a face that Bucky feels like is the face she makes when she’s around a student and can’t swear. 

“Right,” she says. “I have to be on the other side of the building in five minutes. I’m giving the STD talk to one of the freshmen classes. You can’t wait in here, I have to lock up anywhere we store drugs, but you can sit in the lounge area till the bleeding stops?”

“Okay, sure. Good luck with that.” Then something occurs to Bucky. “Wait, what if someone shows up? Is there another nurse?”

They’ve definitely never seen one, but their high school experience so far has involved a hell of a lot less trips to medical staff than middle school had, thanks to Steve’s growth spurt and his lungs deciding to give him a fighting chance at life.

“Nope,” Nurse Temple says, only sounding slightly frustrated. “That would not be in the budget.” It sounds like she’s saying budget with a capital B; Bucky guesses that this is far from the first time she’s had to have this conversation. “But Darcy - Ms Lewis - is only next door; she knows to page me if anyone needs anything.”

Bucky nods into their wad of bloodstained cotton, and Nurse Temple hurries off after locking everything up that needs to be. Maybe they should talk to Tony about his dad setting aside some of the money he’s going to donate to the science labs for the health centre?

It’s hard to know where to stop, with this school. Nothing is completely falling apart, and there’s much worse places they could be, but there isn’t really a single department that couldn’t benefit from at least a small budget increase. 

This is boring. There’s a few books, but they really can’t be bothered figuring out a non-awkward position to read from while keeping the cotton pressed to their nose. 

Actually, maybe it would be okay to take it off now? Nurse Temple hadn’t said anything about a specific time.

They take it away slowly, wincing when some dried blood gets stuck to their skin and they have to peel it off. They must look fucking terrible right now. At least it was just a nosebleed. If anything was broken they’d be really pissed off. 

Bucky wonders what’s happening with Rumlow and Garrett. They have no idea just how much Fury saw; Rumlow might not even be in trouble at all. Bucky’s just glad that they hadn’t had to go along to the headmaster’s office as well; that guy really creeps them out. 

They hover the hand holding the cotton in the air, just in case the bleeding decides to start up again, but after a couple minutes without anything happening they lower it. 

Next step: clean up their face; they don’t even want to know what they look like right now.

They’re about to shove all the cotton pads and gauze into the nearest bin when they remember that blood is usually supposed to go in the garbage separately, right? Not that anyone would have anything to worry about from their blood, but it’s not like they’re planning on labelling it. And Nurse Temple is nice, and she’d seemed kind of stressed out already. Bucky doesn’t want to make her life any harder than in already is, especially since she's unlikely to be having anything but a horrible time with the STD talk. Freshmen love asking awkward questions.

Except the sharps bin and the garbage disposal for anything with blood on will almost definitely be inside her - locked - office, they realise a second later.

This is a very unnecessary quest to give themselves, but they could use a distraction from the thought of Rumlow and Garrett right now. Okay. Blood. Where can you throw away blood in a high school?

Well, that’s blindingly obvious, they think after another second. 

The bathrooms off this little lounge are too out of the way to be used often, and Bucky’s been sat here long enough that they don’t feel at all weird about opening the door to the female one. 

Not that they should, technically, but they’d never even thought about using a different bathroom after coming out as trans. It’s pretty unfair that only the female bathrooms have those bins, anyway. Bucky doesn’t know if there’s any trans guys at their school, or non-binary people that get periods, but there’s a few hundred people here in total so it’s a strong possibility.

Maybe they should get Steve to spearhead a campaign about it, they think vaguely. He’d love that. He could draw horribly detailed posters and everything.

It’s empty, of course - for anyone to be in there, they’d have to have been hiding for the last twenty minutes or so - and Bucky quickly goes over to the furthest cubicle and wraps the cotton up in toilet paper before shoving it into the little sanitary bin. They’d only caught a quick glance at themself in the mirror, but that was enough for them to make cleaning up their next priority.

There’s a loud noise, and Bucky freezes - irrationally; they aren’t actually doing anything wrong, as much as it feels like they are - before registering it as the sound a door makes when someone flings it open violently enough that it bangs against the wall.

They hear someone going into the cubicle at the other end of the row to them, and they take a moment to run through a few of their favourite swear words in their head. Even if they feel like non-binary people should be able to use whichever damn bathroom they want to, there are two important points they hadn’t really been thinking about when they’d come in here.

The first is that only eight - oh, nine, Clint as well - other people in the entire school even know that Bucky is trans, and they have no real desire to increase that number even by one.

The second is that a lot of the world would probably disagree with the point about using whatever bathroom you want to; they have some not so fond memories of reading the news articles about the North Carolina -

Oh, _fuck._ Whoever’s in the other cubicle is throwing up, and from the amount of coughing and choking they’re doing Bucky can’t help but think about that presentation their year had all sat through last year on how to spot the signs of an eating disorder.

What the fucking fuck are they supposed to do now?

They should sneak out as quietly as they can, probably, and head into the guy’s bathroom to clean the blood off their face. That would be the best, least invasive thing to do.

Then their hand slips on the lid of the bin, which they’d been holding open still, and it falls down with a loud cracking noise.

Well, shit.

“Who’s there?” the other person calls out, and Bucky feels like their entire body goes cold when they realise that they recognise the voice.

They step out of the cubicle, hoping their face doesn’t look too terrible. Both because of the dried blood, and because of whatever expression they have on right now.

The door to the other occupied cubicle opens a few moments later, and Bucky has to close their eyes for a moment.

“Helen,” they say quietly; they hadn’t needed confirmation but, well, knowing and seeing are two different things.

“Bucky?” she says in a very panicked voice. “What happened to your face - why are you in here?” Then she shakes her head quickly. “Wait, I’m sorry, that’s so rude of me, of course you can use the women’s bathroom - really, we should have a gender-neutral bathroom, we should do a campaign.”

Helen stops talking then, though Bucky’s pretty sure it’s only because she’d needed to take a breath.

Sure enough, she opens her mouth again only a split second later, before Bucky’s even begun to think of any response they can make. “I - I think I might be coming down with something, I should get back now. I’ve only got a few minutes of my free period left.”

Bucky looks at their phone quickly. Classtimes are the same for everyone, and there’s twenty-five minutes left of the current one. 

“I’m going to go clean up,” they say slowly. “And then I’m going to go sit in the lounge until next bell. I’d - can we talk? Please?”

Helen goes over to the sink and starts splashing cold water over her face and hands.

Bucky doesn’t know what to do. They wait for a moment, standing there awkwardly, but Helen just keeps washing her hands, focusing on the task as if she’s determined to not look up until Bucky’s left.

So they do. They go into the other bathroom and make a half-hearted attempt to get all the blood off their face, unable to fully concentrate on what they’re doing.

When they look mostly presentable - the t-shirt definitely won’t ever be the same again, though - they go back out into the lounge, stopping short when they see Helen sitting on one of the chairs, twisting her hands together and still not looking up.

But she’s here. She didn’t run off. That has to be a good sign, right?

Bucky doesn’t know. They have no clue what to do about any of this. What if something they say makes it worse, somehow? 

That might be similar to how everyone in their friendship group had felt when they had come out as non-binary, though, when they start thinking about it. And the relief when all their friends had accepted them - not all at the same time, but still - had been more than worth the terrified build-up to their confession.

“I’m guessing you aren’t buying the ‘I’m coming down with something,’” Helen says out of nowhere.

“Not really,” Bucky says honestly, because no-one acts as scared as she’d been doing when they’ve got nothing to hide. “But that doesn’t make it my business. I’m just - I’m really worried about you.”

 _You’re my friend and I don’t want you to be hurting,_ is the main thought going through Bucky’s mind right now.

Along with _how long has this been going on?_

“I know it looks bad,” she says in a small voice. Bucky takes a seat, leaving one free in between them in case she’s feeling crowded, or overwhelmed. “But I’m fine, honestly.”

Bucky takes a moment to process that. “I’d rather you just told me to back off than lie to me.”

“Fuck off, then,” Helen says, which startles Bucky for a moment - they don’t think they’ve ever heard her swear before. Then she shakes her head. “No, no, don’t go. Sorry. I’m - maybe not fine, but I’m working on it.”

“Helen,” Bucky says, still half in shock. “You’re - you’re going to be a _doctor._ How can you not know how bad for you this is?”

That was the wrong thing to say, they’re pretty sure, once they actually hear the words out loud. Knowing something isn’t good for you doesn’t mean you can just switch it off; hell, if that was true then Bucky wouldn’t ever have to deal with their anxiety again.

“But - that’s a good thing,” she says before they can take their previous words back, and she sounds desperate in a way that makes Bucky’s skin crawl. “It means I can stay safe, you know? Like, if I eat carrots first, that means when I see orange in the toilet I know I should stop, so that I don’t start vomiting blood.”

Oh, Jesus fucking Christ. 

“Helen,” they say, in the most gentle way they can manage right now. “That’s - fuck. That’s probably the scariest sentence I’ve ever heard in my life.”

Even that feels like an understatement.

She shrugs. “It’s my body,” she says, and - that’s true, isn’t it, and Bucky can’t think of the perfect way to argue against that. They instinctively want to deny what she’s saying, but it _is_ her body, and Bucky’s head feels like they’ve been thrown around a rollercoaster over the last few minutes. 

Plus, Helen is very, very smart, and she can talk rings around people without them even knowing she’s doing it.

Clearly they need to try a different tactic. “What if it was one of your patients telling you that?” That hits home, they can tell, so they decide to keep going along those lines. They hope they aren’t making Helen feel too bad, but they feel like they need her to understand their point. “Or what about if, I don’t know, if Sharon came up to you and said all those same things. Would you still think it was okay then?”

Helen shakes her head silently. “But - Sharon’s gorgeous,” she says quietly. “So that’s a bad example.”

Bucky narrows their eyes. “So are you,” they say matter-of-factly, before realising that any conversation along those lines is going to be irrelevant; being conventionally attractive doesn’t make you immune to mental illness, and they’d bet anything that the rational side of Helen knows that even better than Bucky does. “But that isn’t the point. Like, at all. You got what I meant before, didn’t you?”

It takes more than a few seconds, but eventually Helen nods. Bucky wants to relax, but they know that one nod doesn’t mean the battle’s over. It probably hasn’t even started yet, they think sadly.

God. How could they all have missed this? How long has it been going on? How many weeks or months has one of their friends been hurting herself, hiding away in pain and - Bucky needs to stop thinking about this; they can go over it all in their head later, when they’re alone.

“It’s just - med school sounds _terrifying,_ ” Helen chokes out. “People kill themselves over it, did you know that? What if I can’t make it? What if -”

“Hey, hey,” Bucky interrupts, because her voice was starting to sound like it was breaking in a very worrying way. “You’re amazing, Helen. If I had to pick, like, the nicest, smartest person to be a doctor, it would be you over everyone I know. And if it doesn’t work out, you’ll find something else you love. No-one’s made for just one thing, right?”

“I guess.” That doesn’t sound like an agreement, exactly, but it’s not a flat out denial. 

Bucky takes a long breath in, and lets in out very slowly. “And do you really think that trying to get through college hiding an eating disorder is going to make it easier?”

They want to cry when they see Helen physically flinch away from the words _eating disorder._ They decide not to mention bulimia specifically; they really don’t want to make her feel any shittier than they already have. Fuck, Bucky should not be the one doing this.

“I don’t know what to do,” she says, in the most miserable voice Bucky’s ever heard from her. “Maria keeps booking me appointments with Dr Garner, and I keep missing them, and then I feel even worse.”

Maria knows? That’s - good, probably. Maria is definitely the most sensible out of all their friends.

“Would your parents be able to help, do you think?” Bucky hasn’t actually met Mr and Mrs Cho all that often; they don’t seem to be particularly involved in Helen’s life, but maybe that’s unfair. They don’t talk about their mom very much at school, after all - actually, the only person who seems to find parents an interesting topic of discussion is Steve.

Helen laughs, but the sound is a long way from being genuine amusement. “When we came to America, my mom told me to watch out, because all American girls are too fat.”

Fucking hell. And Bucky’s almost certain that they remember Helen saying that her family had emigrated when she was eight or nine, which makes that already horrifying statement even worse.

“Your dad?” they try, hoping that she won’t give a similar answer.

Helen shakes her head, and their heart sinks. “I don’t know,” she says. “I get on a lot better with him than with my mom. But he’s away on business trips a lot. I don’t really want either of them to know.”

A small part of Bucky’s brain points out that it might be a good thing that Helen’s accepting that there’s something for people to know, at least. But most of their thoughts are still spinning around in an unhelpful chaos of _how long_ and _what do I do_ and _I can’t believe we didn’t know._

“Well, I’m here for you,” they say firmly. “And so is Maria. Everyone else would be as well, but I swear I’d never say anything if you don’t want me to.”

Helen’s eyes go wide. “Please don’t,” she says, sounding panicked again. “I’ll go see Dr Garner if you promise you won’t tell anyone.”

Bucky frowns. “I swear,” they say again. “I won’t say anything to anyone without your permission, even if you never step foot in Garner’s office. This isn’t some kind of - ultimatum, or something. You’re my friend. I just - I want you to be okay, is all.”

“Oh.”

“I think you should see him, or someone else,” Bucky adds, because they don’t want Helen to get the impression they think she should try dealing with this on her own. “But I’m not going to push you into it. I don’t think that would help much, anyway.”

Helen clears her throat. “I’ll talk to Maria again,” she says, and then smooths her hair back and stands up, which Bucky figures is a pretty clear indication that the conversation is over.

“Okay. Great.” Bucky hesitates, wanting to do something more to help, or at least to make Helen feel temporarily better. “Do you want a hug?”

Helen smiles at them then - a very small smile, but it’s real. “No, thanks. I’m going to go get my books and then beat Tony in the physics quiz. That will cheer me up.”

She leaves, with one last wave goodbye, and Bucky sinks back into their chair.

Oh, God.

What are they supposed to do now?

* * *

Bucky feels bad for even thinking it, but they wish that Sam wasn’t sitting next to them right now. They’re trying to make it seem like they’re too busy eating to respond to his obvious concern, but even thinking about food is making them overly aware of Helen, who's sat at the other end of the table, chatting with Sharon and Maria as though nothing at all could possibly be wrong.

“Can you please stop ignoring me for one second,” Sam says, sounding annoyed, and Bucky swallows what’s left of their sandwich.

“Sorry,” they say, meaning it. “I’m listening.”

“I’m going away for winter break, okay. I just wanted to let you know.”

Oh. Bucky nods, trying to think of a good response. “I’ll miss you,” they end up saying, which seems a bit too honest, now that they’ve said it out loud.

Sam doesn’t reply instantly, and Bucky tells themself not to even think about panicking.

“You too,” Sam says quietly. “I mean, we can text, obviously. But - I was kind of hoping we could get coffee again, sometime?”

Shit. This is such fucking horrible timing. Bucky tries to arrange their face into what feels like it might be a happy expression. “Sure,” they say, hating how they can feel the ecstatic reaction they’d be having to that question if it had just come yesterday rise up inside them, only to be damped down by everything else that’s on their mind right now. “Hot chocolate, though, not coffee,” they remember to say, hoping that the almost-in-joke will put Sam’s mind at ease.

“Awesome,” Sam says, though Bucky’s pretty sure he doesn’t look entirely convinced. “Looking forward to it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings: homophobic language including use of the f*g slur. One character threatens to out another to character 2's family. There is some violence (someone is slammed into a wall face first giving them a nosebleed), not exactly homophobic but it directly follows a homophobic attack. Then later we find out that a character is bulimic (from actually hearing them throw up), including one very graphic sentence describing certain bulimic practices. There is also a brief mention of suicide.
> 
> TL;DR summary (spoilers): Rumlow shoves Bucky at school and threatens to out Sam to Sarah (Sam's sister), then Rumlow's friend shoves Bucky against a wall which gives them a bad nosebleed. They go to the nurse's office and while the nurse is away they go into the bathroom and end up hearing Helen throwing up. Bucky (correctly) figures out that Helen has an eating disorder and the two of them talk it over - Bucky says some not 100% ideal things but everything they say is coming from a place of wanting to help her. Chapter ends with Sam sort of asking Bucky out and Bucky saying yes but being too distracted by what Helen's going through to think about it much.
> 
> I'm sorry!! I love all my characters I don't want to hurt them! But everyone gets their own mini plot and Helen's ended up being sad :( she will have some much nicer scenes coming up, I promise! I did some research on attitudes towards body image, specifically the desirability of thinness, in modern East Asian (specifically South Korean) culture (as background for Helen's mom, not Helen, who has developed an eating disorder only a small bit because of body image and mostly because she is very overwhelmed and stressed in her life right now), if anyone would like to know more feel free to ask.
> 
> I want to say I hope you liked this chapter but I don't know if that's the right phrasing since the second half is not very cheerful. But I hope it was treated sensitively, and all feedback is very welcome. I am struggling a little with the amount of supporting characters I have given myself but I promise there will be more SamBucky coming up in Chapter 6!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Hey to you too.” Sam is a forgiving person, sure, but he’s not going to fall all over Bucky without them at least acknowledging that they’ve not properly talked to Sam in way too long.
> 
> Bucky sighs. “Sorry I’ve been ignoring you. Can I say it’s not you without sounding like a cheesy break-up line?”
> 
> “Nope,” Sam says, relieved that they’re actually going to talk about this. “But I’ll take it anyway.” He decides to push Bucky, just a little, since they aren’t going to see each other for three weeks. “Anyway, we’d have to be going out for it to be a break-up line.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is a bit later than I told some people it would be! Work has been horribly busy and when I'm not there I'm usually asleep (exciting life haha), but when I'm working I often think up random plots in my head so on the bright side I have a couple more SamBucky fic ideas to write out when I have a chance :)
> 
> Hope you like this chapter! Feedback is very welcome as always. Thank you so much for the comments, I love reading any thoughts on this fic more than I can put into words.
> 
> No chapter-specific warnings.

* * *

It’s the last day of school before winter break, and Sam has approximately eight million things he needs to get done. His family are spending pretty much the whole holiday at his grandparents’ place in Washington DC - which isn’t exactly the other side of the planet, but it does mean that he won’t see any of his friends in person until they’re all back at school. 

He’s already said goodbye to Steve, which involved an enjoyable few minutes of - metaphorically - kicking his ass for still not asking Sharon out. Sam feels bad for getting annoyed by Steve’s basement-level self esteem, but it’s really hard not to sometimes. Still, Steve had promised to at least message Sharon over the break, which is something.

Bucky - Bucky’s been acting weird, the last few days, and Sam really hopes it isn’t because of his attempt to ask them out on an actual date. He’s already planning to message them when he gets back home, just to wish them a good holiday and all that, but he’s not feeling too hopeful. He’s trying not to think about Bucky at all right now, actually, and he’s even succeeding a bit. 

He’d been horrified to see bruises on Bucky’s face a few days ago, and even more so when he’d learned how they’d got there - and, worse still, that Garrett had been suspended but Rumlow had got away without even an official warning. That was beyond unfair, though he guesses he should be happy that at least Bucky hadn’t been told off for anything - which hadn’t been out of the realm of possibility; Sam’s heard of kids who were getting bullied at this school who were told that _they_ were the ones distracting their classmates, which makes him so fucking pissed off.

Okay, so he might need to do just a tiny bit more work on the whole _not thinking about Bucky_ thing.

On the bright side, he’s sorted out everything he needs to with his teachers, including picking up a few extra assignments from Mr Coulson because, well, Sam’s good at math, but he could do with being a lot better by the time finals come around.

Which is yet another thing he isn’t going to think about right now; they’ve all got months to build up to the level of panic those exams are going to create.

What he really wants to do at the moment is track down Rhodey. They’ve talked since the party, of course, but they haven’t talked properly, not in the way Sam wants. He’s worried that Rhodey’s worried that Sam’s mad at him for not talking through his plans to join the forces - well, it’s all a bit convoluted in Sam’s head right now, which is why he really needs to find Rhodey and actually have this conversation in person.

“Maria!”

He’s almost certain that it was her ahead of him - she’s pretty distinctive, after all, taller even than most of the guys at school - but he guesses that his shout didn’t carry over the noise of the crowded corridor, because she doesn’t turn around.

He sighs, maybe a bit dramatically, and leans against the nearest locker, taking out his phone.

 **Where are you?** he texts Rhodey. Everyone’s been let out of their last class of the day already, but no-one seems eager to rush off home, unlike every other day of the year. 

**music rooms,** is the almost instant reply, and Sam wants to kick himself. Of course Rhodey would be taking advantage of the practice rooms; he doesn’t advertise it, but he’s beyond talented at both the piano and the clarinet. And Sam knows for a fact that the Rhodes’ only have a small keyboard in their apartment, whereas the practice rooms here at least have upright pianos, even if they’re permanently out-of-tune.

His phone buzzes with another notification from Rhodey, and Sam looks down. **but don’t come** is the text. What the hell?

 **I just wanted to talk quickly,** he replies, feeling kind of frustrated. Sure, Rhodey’s music is important to him, but all Sam wants is a ten-minute conversation and the chance to say goodbye in person to one of his friends, who he’s about to not see for three weeks. Is that really too much to ask?

His phone buzzes again.

**ok nat says you can come**

_Nat?_ Now Sam’s really confused. He’ll be the first to admit that she can be more than a little secretive at times, sure, but he’s been friends with her for two years now and he feels like he would have noticed if she had any inclination towards playing a musical instrument.

Of course, she could just be keeping Rhodey company. But that doesn’t quite fit either. Rhodey isn’t the kind of person that likes having an audience - which is one of the many reasons Sam will never stop being surprised by how close he and Tony are - and Nat and Rhodey rarely hang out as just the two of them, at least as far as Sam’s aware.

Well, he would have headed over anyway, just to talk to Rhodey. But Sam might be walking just a little bit faster than usual after reading that text.

Curiosity isn’t a sin, okay.

The practice rooms are basically one big room with a few individual little pods inside. Sam thinks they’re supposed to be sound-proofed, which they probably are if you happen to play the flute or something, but he can hear some kind of trombone or trumpet booming out when he’s only halfway down the music corridor.

He steps into the room and spots Jen Walters in the nearest little room immediately, playing her whatever-it-is at top volume. He’s never spoken to her, but she’s mildly famous throughout the school for winning some kind of amateur bodybuilding competition. She most likely doesn’t even need to work out, he thinks when he sees her holding up the giant gold instrument; carrying that around would probably give your muscles more than enough to do.

All the other pods look empty. Sam frowns. He really isn’t going to appreciate it if this turns out to be some kind of a wild goose chase, or Nat’s idea of a joke - Rhodey would never bother to play a prank like this, so he’s definitely going to blame Nat.

Then he catches movement out of the corner of his eye, and sees Rhodey waving at him from inside the pod right at the very end of the room. 

Sam makes his way over, opening the door and frowning again when he still doesn’t see any sign of Nat. 

Rhodey looks kind of weird, though, not worried exactly, but - actually, yeah, Rhodey isn’t big on letting everyone see what he’s feeling, so _worried_ probably does cover it.

Sam closes the door behind him, and lets out a very startled noise when he sees Nat sitting in the corner that the door had opened onto.

“Shit, I didn’t hit you, did I?”

Nat shakes her head.

Sam looks at Rhodey. Something’s wrong here, that’s more than obvious.

“I just walked in to play a little and she was here,” Rhodey says, looking more helpless than Sam’s ever seen him. “I’ve been talking to her, but she hasn’t said anything. Nodded when I asked if you could come, though.”

Fuck. Sam tries to think about his last conversation with Nat, but now that he thinks about it he hasn’t seen her all day, and their one interaction yesterday had consisted of her updating him on the latest edition of the A-Force comic. Sam’s a big comics fan in theory, but in practice he usually waits until he can borrow a few issues from a friend, or until the library - the public one; their school sadly isn’t quite at that level of awesome - buys some new trade paperbacks.

So, yeah, he hasn’t spoken about anything significant with Nat for a while. Not that the two of them discuss their personal lives all that often, he thinks with an unexpected sense of shame. He isn’t even sure why, when he thinks about it. She just - never brings it up, and he guesses that at some point he stopped asking, and he doesn’t know whether it would have been pushy if he’d kept it up or if it was worse to stop, if she thinks he wouldn’t care.

Oh, _Nat._

Of course she would find a soundproofed room before she let herself cry.

He sits down next to her, being careful not to actually touch her as she does. Nat’s big on personal space, to the extent where physical contact actually seems to make her jumpy sometimes, which Sam feels like he should probably worry about.

Later, though.

“Hey, Tiffany,” he says lightly, hoping that the reference to one of their mutual favourite Discworld characters will prompt some kind of response.

Nat looks up at him; only for a second, but he’ll take it. “I’m Granny Weatherwax when she was a teenager, not Tiffany.” Her voice is maybe a bit scratchier, a bit quieter, than normal, but Sam honestly can’t tell if that’s true or if he’s just projecting what he’d expect onto her.

“I can go,” Rhodey says suddenly. Sam guesses he’s feeling kind of awkward; while Sam and Nat are great friends, and Sam and Rhodey get along well, there’s no real third side of that triangle.

“My parents are getting divorced,” Nat says instead of answering Rhodey. Her voice was definitely quieter than usual, that time.

“I’m so sorry,” Sam says on autopilot, hoping desperately that he doesn’t sound surprised.

He isn’t, exactly. It’s just - that’s such a normal reason for someone to be upset, and he’d been expecting some kind of - he doesn’t even know what, now that he’s thinking about it consciously. Divorce is a pretty major reason to get upset, and even if Nat had been moping over an unrequited crush or a bad grade, that would be completely normal as well. He feels like such an asshole for assuming - briefly, but he hates that the thought was even there at all - that only someone dying or something like that would make Nat cry.

It’s just, well. Nat always seems so - aloof, almost, except maybe quite that isn’t the right word. She keeps herself at a distance from everyone, even her best friends - hell, her and Sam’s friendship is mostly based around the fact that they have similar tastes in fantasy and sci-fi, not on anything intrinsic to their personalities; though their love of arguing over minor details in every form of media definitely doesn’t hurt.

He feels terrible, now, when he realises that - subconsciously, but he isn’t sure if that makes it better or worse - he’d assumed that Nat never showing people her feelings had meant that they didn’t affect her as deeply as they might have other people.

“My mom is moving back to Russia,” Nat says, and her words are steady but she’s ducked her head even further down, so that her hair is covering her face. 

Not that Sam would be able to read her expression, anyway, he thinks, and then wants to kick himself for the tenth time in the last few minutes. Nat’s a person, with all the insecurities and anxious moments that come along with that - maybe especially so, when you’re a teenager - and he needs to stop thinking of her as somehow above such petty things as emotions.

He wants to give himself a bit of leeway here, since he knows that that _is_ the image she tries to project to the world, but he isn’t going to. How you present yourself doesn’t have to match up with how you feel, he knows that, and he really needs to work on remembering to apply that principle to everyone, not just to someone like Bucky.

“Does she want you to go with her?” Rhodey asks, sounding alarmed. Shit, Sam hadn’t even thought of that.

Nat nods, and his heart sinks.

“I’m not going to, though,” she says a moment later. “I don’t even like Russia that much. It’s cold. And the laws are -”

She breaks off, shaking her head once, which makes her hair swing back and forth across her face.

“That’s good. We’d all miss you,” Rhodey says, and Sam makes an agreeing kind of noise.

“Do you have somewhere you can stay?” Sam thinks to ask. “Tony would put you up, if you didn’t. His house is so big you wouldn’t even have to see him.”

“My dad is renting an apartment in Queens,” Nat says, shrugging a little. “I’ll stay with him until I can move into the dorms.”

Oh, of course. Nat’s hoping to go to NYU as well. That would be amazing, if the two of them both make it in, with Bucky still in New York and most of the others - except Rhodey and Maria, of course - not too far away.

“That’s great,” Sam says. “I really am sorry, Nat. I can’t imagine how much this sucks for you right now.”

It’s true. He’s never had to deal with much family drama, really. His parents are still ridiculously in love, with regular date nights and everything, and neither he or Sarah had turned into the rebellious kind of child who deliberately causes tension.

Of course, Sam might create a hell of a lot of family drama if he ever decided to come out to them, but he isn’t going to think about that. Nat’s the important one right now.

She shakes her head again. “They never liked each other that much. I just wish my mom didn’t want to leave the country.”

Sam tries to imagine his parents separating, which isn’t easy. They wouldn’t fight for a second over custody, he’s sure - not that it would be relevant for longer than a few more months - they’d just agree to joint and then let Sam and Sarah spend time with whoever they wanted, whenever. His mom would worry about the effect it was having on them, probably; she’d insist on at least calling them once a day. 

She would never, never up and move to a country on the other side of the world, where she’d be able to see her kids once or twice a year at most.

He’s not going to say that out loud, obviously.

“We’ll help you get through it,” he says instead. “However we can.” He glances at Rhodey, who nods instantly. “Are you going to tell the others?”

She shrugs. “I might just put it in the group chat. Is that weird?”

“Who cares?” Rhodey says. “It’s your business, and you can tell people - or not - however you want to.”

Nat unfolds herself gracefully and stands up. “Okay.”

“Do you want to hang out, or something?” Sam says before she can open the door. “We could find a good distraction. Or we could go back to mine and watch Attack of the Clones.”

One of Sam and Nat’s favourite things to do is watch their least favourite movies and ruthlessly dissect them, pointing out even the most minor flaws. Just the dialogue in Attack of the Clones could keep them entertained for hours.

Nat tilts her head to one side. “Tempting,” she says, properly looking at Sam for the first time in their whole conversation. “But not today. I’m going round to Helen’s. We’re baking cookies. It’s good to put effort into food sometimes.”

Sam nods, even though he doesn’t really know what she means by that last part. “Have fun.” He’d offer a hug, but he’s ninety-nine percent certain she’d refuse.

Except he’d literally _just_ been thinking about how he needed to stop assuming shit about her. For fuck’s sake.

“Want a hug?” he says, not moving towards her.

Nat looks considering for a moment. “I don’t know.”

She steps up and hugs him, since she’s most likely the kind of person who finds out things they don’t know by trial and error. Sam puts his arms around her, not tightly. Her hair smells of cigarettes - weird; he’s pretty sure she doesn’t smoke - and some sort of flowers.

The hug only lasts a few seconds, but Nat smiles when she pulls away. “Thanks,” she says, then waves over Sam’s shoulder. “Bye, James. Sorry you didn’t get to play the piano. I like listening to you.”

Sam wonders if she usually lets Rhodey know when she’s listening.

“It’ll be waiting when I get back,” Rhodey says. “And thanks. I take requests, if you’re into classical music.”

“There’s a piece - I don’t know the name, though.” Nat looks frustrated, as if she’d maybe somehow expected her brain to remember every piece of music she’d ever heard. “It’s by Debussy, I think?” She hums a few notes, and Rhodey’s face lights up in recognition.

Rhodey smiles at her, small but real. “Oh, that’s a wonderful one.” He says something in French - la fille au chev delin, maybe; Sam took Spanish as his language elective. “It’s dissonant, but in the most beautiful way.”

Nat nods, maybe in agreement, maybe just acknowledgement, and leaves the little room quietly. Outside is silent, now; Sam guesses that most students have headed home.

 _Dissonant but beautiful._ That somehow describes Nat perfectly, Sam thinks, and he doesn’t mean her physical beauty.

* * *

Sam heads out of school after speaking quickly to Rhodey - who had seemed relieved to hear that Sam really, really wasn’t mad at him, so he’s glad they got that out of the way - feeling tired and more than a little sad. And frustrated, because he knows he should go find Bucky and see why they’ve been acting so weird the last few days, but he doesn’t want to have to deal with them ignoring him, or half-listening and then making some vague excuse that Sam can’t help but accept because he doesn’t want to be pushy.

And now he’s feeling guilty for thinking of it like that when Bucky might be dealing with something serious.

For fuck’s sake. This is really not the mood he wants to be in when he’s about to start his holiday.

He’s only a few steps outside when someone falls in alongside him, and he glances over to see Bucky, looking sort of - apologetic, maybe, only that could be entirely Sam’s imagination.

“Hey,” Bucky says, taking one of their hands out of their pocket to give Sam an awkward little wave.

“Hey to you too.” Sam is a forgiving person, sure, but he’s not going to fall all over Bucky without them at least acknowledging that they’ve not properly talked to Sam in way too long.

Bucky sighs. “Sorry I’ve been ignoring you. Can I say it’s not you without sounding like a cheesy break-up line?”

“Nope,” Sam says, relieved that they’re actually going to talk about this. “But I’ll take it anyway.” He decides to push Bucky, just a little, since they aren’t going to see each other for three weeks. “Anyway, we’d have to be going out for it to be a break-up line.”

Bucky ducks their head down for a moment, but when they look back at Sam there’s a smile on their face. “Any chance you’d like to change that?”

Wow. Sam hadn’t been expecting them to just come out with it like that. Even Sam’s vague ‘would you like to get coffee sometime’ could have been explained away as a friendship kind of thing.

He thinks for a second. There’s more to the Rumlow story than Bucky’s letting on, he’s pretty sure, and he doesn’t know if whatever happened there is somehow prompting this, in a weird roundabout kind of way. He wouldn’t be too surprised to learn that this is Bucky’s way of challenging something Rumlow had said to them, and Sam’s not going to turn them down even if is that - it’s not like he thinks Bucky would have asked him out _just_ for that reason; this is a pretty damn big step for the two of them - but he’d at least like a bit of clarification.

“Are you asking me to be your boyfriend?” he says, partly teasing and partly honestly wanting to know what Bucky’s after.

“Um.”

“Too blunt?”

“No, no. I mean, yes.” Sam glances over to see that Bucky’s face is turning red. “I mean. No to the too blunt, yes to the - boyfriend thing. If you want, I mean! If not, um.”

Sam knows that Bucky had probably wanted to say something along the lines of _if not, we can just go back to being completely regular and non-awkward friends,_ but hadn’t been able to get the words out. They’d have been a lie, Sam’s pretty sure. Hopefully he and Bucky wouldn’t cause any tension in the group, at least, but he can’t really picture everything bouncing straight back to normal if he turns Bucky down now.

Not that he’d even considered that for a second; he’s not going to lie to himself.

“Alright,” Sam says casually, knowing that the giant smile on his face is saying all he needs to. “But you can’t be my boyfriend, obviously. Partner?”

Bucky’s smile grows to match Sam’s. God, the two of them are going to be sickening, Sam thinks happily. Everyone is going to hate them so _much,_ it’s going to be great.

Wait.

“You’re the only person I’ve come out to,” Sam says, unable to believe that he hadn’t thought about that before saying yes. Shit. He’d thought everything was going so well, for one shining moment.

Bucky looks sideways at him. “I figured that.” They nudge Sam gently with their shoulder. “That doesn’t change anything for me. We can still, um, date. Just not tell people.”

Sam frowns. “Would you seriously be okay with that?”

He’s not trying to accuse Bucky of not telling the truth, or anything, but he doesn’t want to accept their - almost instant - response at face value, either. He’s already thinking of about a hundred ways this could go wrong, and he’s sure his mind will come up with plenty more right when he’s trying to go to sleep tonight.

“Of course I would,” Bucky says, sounding mildly annoyed. What an excellent start to their relationship.

Holy shit. Relationship. Sam really wants to pinch himself right now, but that’s hard to do subtly. He bites the inside of his cheek instead. Ouch. He should probably just have stuck to some normal way of telling whether you’re awake, like counting your fingers.

He doesn’t want to ask _are you sure_ again, except for how he really, really does.

“Sam,” Bucky says, stopping right in the middle of the sidewalk. Sam immediately gets paranoid about how loud they’ve been talking - even though they haven’t been, not at all - and glances around to make sure that they haven’t been taking the same route away from school as anyone they know, or who might know them.

Why don’t they wear school uniforms? Sam has never, ever wished for that in his life, but right now it would really come in handy. He decides to just make sure no teenager in eyesight is looking at them funny instead of trying to pick out specific people from school. That’s a perfectly normal thing to do.

Probably. Possibly. Fuck.

 _”Sam,”_ Bucky says again, more insistently this time, and Sam looks at them. “Stop overthinking this. I can’t believe I’m the one telling _you_ that.” They pause, then focus very intently on Sam’s ear rather than his eyes. “You’re worth it, okay. I don’t give a fuck if we have to keep this a secret.”

Oh.

“That’s good,” Sam says weakly. He swears he can be all charming when he wants to be - someone described him as _suave_ once, which he’s never got over - but apparently not around Bucky Barnes.

“Plus,” Bucky adds, “I don’t even know if I’m out to the group as being attracted to guys. And my family obviously don’t know.”

That’s - a good point, and Sam can’t believe he hadn’t thought of that. He realises abruptly that he’s been thinking it would be easy for Bucky to come out as queer sexuality-wise after having opened up about being non-binary, which a hell of a lot less people have heard of, but he wonders now if that’s overly simplistic. This kind of thing is usually anything but _simple,_ he reminds himself, and he really needs to stop making so many goddamn assumptions.

“Overthinking,” Bucky says gently, and sets off walking again.

“We passed the subway half a block back,” Sam points out, deciding not to respond to Bucky’s very valid observation.

Bucky doesn’t look at all bothered to hear that. “You’re leaving tomorrow morning, right?” 

Sam nods, but Bucky’s half a step ahead so doesn’t see. “Um, yeah.”

“So your family won’t mind if you aren’t home until later?”

“I guess not?”

Sam pulls out his phone to send his mom a quick text. School hasn’t even been out for an hour, but, well, she worries. And it takes no effort at all to type out **Be home by 8ish!**

“Okay,” Sam says, pocketing his phone and feeling a sudden urge to take Bucky’s hand - which he stamps right back down again, obviously, because they’re still only a few blocks away from school. “What’s your plan?”

* * *

Sam stumbles off the steps leading down from the Cyclone.

Bucky’s plan had turned out to involve Coney Island, a shit-ton of cheap candyfloss, and a ride on a very rickety-looking rollercoaster. The sign nearby proudly states ‘Built in 1927,’ which Sam feels like they should actually avoid advertising when it comes to things that might potentially kill you. 

“Vomiting is _not_ romantic,” Sam mutters under his breath, then smiles his sweetest smile - the one his mom calls his _who, me?_ smile - at Bucky when they turn around. 

“You’re not actually going to throw up, are you?” Bucky looks honestly scared at the thought, even though they're apparently a Coney Island veteran, so there’s no way they haven't experienced someone upchucking a few corndogs in front of them at some point.

Sam shakes his head. “Nah, all good. Just messing with you.”

“Asshole. You said once you wish you could fly without being in a plane,” Bucky says without looking Sam in the eye. “Rollercoasters are basically flying.”

Well, Sam can’t be mad at them even the tiniest bit after hearing that. How irritating.

“I can’t believe you remember that,” Sam says honestly; he barely remembers that conversation himself.

“Well, I can’t believe you haven’t been to Coney Island since you were a kid,” Bucky replies, sounding way more outraged than Sam thinks that statement merits. “It’s for everyone, okay. Steve and me come here all the time.”

Of course they do. “Now I don’t feel all special,” Sam says in his best pretend-sad voice. Bucky picks up that he’s joking, he can tell, because they just roll their eyes and nudge Sam with their elbow.

“If I win you a prize, will you feel all special then?”

Sam looks Bucky in the face and - Jesus, what is he even doing - makes a sad attempt at fluttering his eyelashes. “Only if it’s the best one in the whole fair.”

Bucky has a really weird expression on - if Sam had to guess, he’d say they look torn between laughter and being slightly turned on, which is good to have as a reference.

“Sure thing, babydoll,” Bucky drawls in the most stereotypical Brooklyn accent Sam’s ever heard.

It’s ridiculous; there’s no doubt about that.

So why is it also really, really hot?

“These things are rigged, anyway,” he points out, thankful that there’s no way Bucky will be able to tell that his face is a little more flushed than usual.

Bucky just shrugs at that. “Eh. I know a few tricks.”

That sounds like someone who’s waiting to be challenged. Sam looks around. He spots a booth across the way with those little ducks that go round in circles, only the ducks on this one have little targets painted on as well. It looks very, very difficult, which is probably why there’s not a single person in line for it.

Hah. Perfect. He looks at the prizes - stuffed animals, as usual - and laughs at how hideous they all are.

“That one,” he says, pointing. 

Bucky looks at him with a very judgemental expression on. “Sam. Do you seriously want a two-foot tall stuffed - what the hell even is that thing, anyway?”

“It’s a bird,” Sam says, already feeling loyal towards his prize - yeah, okay, he admits that he isn’t quite sure what _kind_ of bird it is, but that’s irrelevant.

“Some fuckin’ bird,” Bucky mutters, going all uber-Brooklyn again for a moment. “That thing couldn’t fly if you strapped it to a fucking plane.”

Sam sighs, very loudly. “I mean, if you’re trying to say you can’t get it, I’ll understand. I don’t _need_ a partner who can win me a giant stuffed bird. Probably.”

Bucky narrows their eyes, and Sam grins, wide and unreservedly happy. He _loves_ that he and Bucky already know they can tease each other, and that they’ll know where the line is. There’s nothing wrong with going on dates with strangers, but he doesn’t know how they could possibly live up to something like this: the sheer relief and comfort that comes from knowing the limits and boundaries of the person you’re with.

“Challenge fucking accepted,” Bucky says, already marching over to the booth.

“Five shots,” they say firmly to the guy behind the counter.

The guy looks at Bucky. “Y’sure? You’d have to get it right every time to win anything.”

“Five,” Bucky repeats, not rudely.

“G’luck,” the guy says, handing Bucky a rifle that looks about as old and rickety as the Cyclone.

Bucky takes their stance, looking down the scope with an expression of intense concentration that Sam’s never seen on their face before, at least not to that degree. They’re holding the gun almost eerily still, and if it wasn’t for the quick flickers of their eyes, they’d seem almost statue-like right now.

Sam feels himself shiver, just a little, but he ignores it easily. 

The first loud crack of the gun makes him jump; he hadn’t even seen Bucky’s fingers tightening on the trigger.

He looks over and sees a neat hole in one of the ducks, just off-centre but still firmly in the middle of the target. Shit. Bucky’s _good,_ they hadn’t been playing it up.

“Kicks to the left,” Bucky says under their breath, and Sam doesn’t know if they’re talking to him or themself.

 _Crack._

The second shot is perfectly centered, as are the third and fourth.

Bucky takes a long breath before the fifth, which Sam only hears because he’s hovering so close, feeling on edge in a weird, anxiously-excited kind of way.

He won’t care even a bit if Bucky doesn’t win anything; he hadn’t actually been expecting them to. But it would be a shame, to have made it this far and then to mess up on the last hurdle.

Sam sees their finger press down, gently, this time, and the loud noise doesn’t make him jump.

Bucky stands straight and hands the gun back to the guy running the stall, shaking out their arms. “We’ll take that horrible bird thing,” they say matter-of-factly, and Sam looks over to see one more duck with a hole dead in the centre.

“Wow,” the guy says as he unhooks the bird - Sam can’t help but wonder how long it’s been hanging there. “That was some shooting, dude.”

“Thanks,” Bucky says, not sounding proud, just acknowledging that yes, those shots had been fucking incredible. Sam wants to glare at the stall guy for calling Bucky _dude,_ but he recognises that it wouldn’t be a very rational thing to do.

“You okay?” he asks, as they’re walking away.

Bucky smiles at him quickly. “Yeah,” they say. “All good. Hey, that thing’s even worse up close.”

Sam looks at the bird, which, alright, really is perfectly hideous. He’s pretty sure it’s some kind of rejected Christmas toy; it’s got a green torso, red wings, and a band of tinsel stapled - not even sewn - around its neck.

“What are you going to call it?” Bucky asks, scrunching their nose up when they reach out to touch one wing - slightly matted, he can admit; Sam might have to figure out how to wash this thing. He wonders if his mom would help him, then promptly decides that she never, ever needs to know about its existence at all. He’ll be able to sneak a garish, two-foot-high stuffed toy into his very small room, he’s sure. 

Well. Not _sure,_ so much as vaguely hopeful.

Bucky probably wouldn’t be offended if he handed the bird right back to the stall, or foisted it off on some kid that’s about the same height as it. But that’s not the point.

“Um,” he says, trying to think of any name that isn’t obviously Christmassy. “Redwing?”

“How deeply original of you,” Bucky says, voice thick with sarcasm and laughter. God, Sam loves them.

Wait, what?

“I think they, like, ripped these wings off a smaller bird toy and sewed them on,” Bucky says, apparently oblivious to the very significant internal crisis Sam is going through right now. “You hear that, Wilson? You got yourself a Frankenstein bird over here.”

“Frankenstein was the man, not the monster,” Sam says absently. Since when is he in _love_ with Bucky?

Or, loving is different than being _in_ love, he guesses, but he can’t imagine how right now.

“You’re such a fucking nerd.”

“Not yet,” Sam says, still not paying enough attention to the conversation, and then promptly tries to hide behind Redwing. “Um. Shit, I didn’t mean to say that.”

Bucky laughs, and Sam can’t tell if it’s forced or not. “We can have that talk some other time, yeah?” is all they say, which Sam is very, very grateful for. He knows that most seventeen-year-old boys would be feeling desperate to have sex, and it’s not like he _doesn’t_ want to, but - fuck, he’s nervous, and it’s kind of a big deal to him. 

Sam sees a vintagey photobooth over in a corner, looking neglected, and decides that it would make an excellent distraction from his mind right now. He’s got a lot of confused emotions that just got brought up again that he wants to ignore, plus one corner of his mind is still firmly occupied with worrying about Nat.

He tucks Redwing under one arm - not without difficulty - and grabs Bucky’s wrist with the other hand, tugging them along.

“C’mon,” he says, even though Bucky isn’t actually putting up any fuss. “We can commemorate the day you won me my Christmas nightmare bird.”

 _And the day we started dating,_ is what he really wants to say, but he figures that Bucky can probably guess the words Sam’s leaving unspoken.

“You want all three of us to get in that thing?”

Sam wants to protest the doubt in Bucky’s voice, but he looks at the photobooth again, and - okay, it’s pretty small.

But he’s never been one to admit defeat before he’s even tried something. “It’ll be fine,” he says confidently.

It doesn’t end up being _fine,_ exactly. Sam has to half-sit on Bucky’s lap - not that he’s complaining - and Redwing ends up squashed between Sam’s shoulder and the photobooth wall, a weird looming sort of presence in the corner of every picture they take.

But it doesn’t have to all be perfect for it to be, well, perfect. 

The first photo is just on the verge of awkward, heads pressed together in a way they wouldn’t think twice about if they were still just friends, almost-nervous smiles on both their faces.

In the second picture Bucky leans over and kisses Sam’s cheek, just as the camera flashes.

For the third one, Sam turns his head as well; he waits for a breath before Bucky moves in closer, and their first kiss is captured forever. 

Except it isn’t, of course. A photo can try to freeze a moment in time, but it can never pin down everything: the smell of the cracked leather seat, the feel of having someone’s breath so close to yours, the way Sam’s heart honest-to-god feels like it skips a beat at the first touch of their lips. 

Maybe those shitty romance novels were on to something with all that talk about fireworks, Sam thinks to himself, smiling into the kiss. 

Just before the fourth and final photo gets taken, Sam turns too far towards Bucky and Redwing slips off his shoulder, crashing forward almost into the lens. Sam and Bucky end up laughing through their second attempt at a kiss, and it should probably be awkward but it isn’t, not even a bit.

They stumble a little getting out of the booth. For a second Sam feels weirdly shy, for some reason, but he shakes away the feeling. They print out two strips of the four photos, but instead of giving Sam one Bucky just picks them both up and holds them, so that Sam has to lean in close to see.

“Did you know,” Bucky says, quiet and almost reverent, though that seems like a much too solemn word for someone looking at some pictures which include a photobomb by a giant fuzzy bird. “That for same-sex couples back in, like, the fifties or something, photobooth pictures were sometimes the only ones they ever had of themselves?”

Sam had not known that, and he isn’t sure if the thought makes him sad or grateful - it doesn’t bring up any one emotion, really, just a swirling mess that he doesn’t want to try to pick his way through.

 _Bittersweet_ might be the way to describe how he’s feeling, as he looks at the little strip of photos: their first kiss, first photo as a couple, printed out on such a small bit of card that could so easily be hidden away, slipped between the pages of a never-read book, or stashed under a mattress like there was something dirty or forbidden about it. 

“They couldn’t ask a photographer to take one,” Bucky continues. “But photobooths were anonymous. No-one ever had to know.”

Sam blinks a few times, hoping that the itching in his eyes doesn’t mean he’s close to tears. “I want to come out to our friends,” he says suddenly, not even knowing he’s going to say it until the words are already out. “But we don’t have to, obviously,” he adds quickly. “No pressure.”

No pressure. He’s pretty sure those two words sound like the worst kind of platitude after his previous ones. He means everything he said though, both that he doesn’t want to have to hide this - not in front of their friends, anyway; he’s going to need to think for a long time before he can come to any kind of a decision about his family - but also that he’ll wait for as long as it takes for Bucky to be comfortable with the idea.

Bucky looks up from the pictures, looks at Sam, and smiles.

“Yeah,” they say, without a trace of uncertainty. “Yeah, I want to. After break, okay? When we’re all together again?”

“Okay,” Sam says, and leans over and kisses Bucky again, easy as anything, with no walls to hide behind this time.

Oh, it won’t be an easy road all the way, Sam has no doubt. But they’ll be walking it together, and that’s what counts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally we get to some of my Natasha feels! With more to come in the next chapter, which is going to be a bit of a different one.
> 
> The photobooth thing is true, I first saw a post about it on tumblr which I unfortunately didn't bookmark, but [here](https://www.queerty.com/photos-1950s-gay-couple-found-safety-showed-affection-in-photo-booth-20140625) is an article about one of those photos. 
> 
> The piece of music Nat and Rhodey talk about is one of my favourites, it's by Claude Debussy and is called ['La Fille aux Cheveux de Lin'](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TEdSdtztfLQ) ('The Girl with the Flaxen Hair').
> 
> I hope you liked Sam and Bucky's first date, and that the nods to canon worked okay. Chapter 7 will most likely be up the day after tomorrow. Thank you all for reading this fic!!


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Maria:** So Bucky is babysitting and also they’re planning to ring Sam tomorrow night so that’s a no from them. They said thanks for the invite though.
> 
>  **Nat:** :o
> 
>  **Sharon:** awwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww times infinity
> 
>  **Helen:** !!! that’s so cute I wonder if they meant right before midnight?!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I'm not sure if you'll like this chapter or not? There is almost no Sam or Bucky, and it's written from the POV of a character we haven't seen much of so far. I'd really appreciate feedback on this one especially, I've written a fair bit from Sam/Steve/Bucky's perspectives before and it's always a bit nervewracking trying to figure out someone else's 'voice' if that makes sense.
> 
> There are some non-MCU cameos here but they aren't spoilery (I think, check the end notes if you want to know the show they're from) and you don't need to have seen that show to read the chapter at all.
> 
> Chapter warnings: unwanted advances/unwanted sexualisation of under 18 characters, including mention of it from an authority figure.

* * *

Maria stretches her arms up over her head, trying to get rid of the tension that never seems to leave her when she’s at home. 

She’s heard that quote about war a thousand times, the _months of boredom punctuated by moments of extreme terror_ one, but she sometimes thinks she’d rather live a lifetime of that than have this constant, low-level hum of uneasiness that she never manages to fully suppress. It’s been a long holiday. She can’t wait for school to start in a few days, and she couldn’t care less about how weird everyone else in her year might find that statement.

What she needs is a distraction. And she probably isn’t the only one. Helen and Nat aren’t doing too great right now, and she knows that Sharon’s grades haven’t been nearly as good as she’d wanted them to be so far this year.

Maybe what they need before they go back to school is a night out, something new and different that they’ve never done before.

And tomorrow just so happens to be New Year’s Eve. Perfect.

She takes out her phone and starts typing.

**Feel free to say no (we’re all 17 or 18) but if me and my friends wanted to come sit in the bar for a bit tomorrow night would you be okay with that?**

The reply comes back almost instantly.

**sure!! it’ll be quiet anyway, we aren’t really a NYE sort of place. looking forward to seeing you!**

Well, that’s the main obstacle out of the way.

Now for everyone else. She opens up the Facebook group chat that’s just her, Helen, Sharon and Nat. They don’t actually use it all that often; the last few posts are just some kind of meme argument between Nat and Sharon that Maria didn’t even bother to try and follow, but it’s going to come in handy now.

 **Maria:** Hi girls. Quick question, do any of you have New Years plans tomorrow?

 **Helen:** I don’t! Korean NY isn’t till Jan 28th this year.

Maria makes a mental note of that; maybe the group should do something for Helen on that day. It must be annoying to have pretty much the entire country celebrating something that your culture is still waiting three weeks for. Not that Helen’s the sort of person to get upset at that sort of thing, at least not openly, but still. A card or some flowers might be nice.

 **Sharon:** nope no plans i’m sad and boring. hang on i’m going to call nat she isn’t online right now

 **Maria:** Okay, thanks Sharon

She waits, tapping her fingers on her keyboard without actually typing anything.

 _I hate my stepdad,_ she taps out, still without putting pressure on a single key. _I hate him I hate him I hate him._

A few minutes later, the little note that says ‘Seen by everyone’ pops up, and she stills her hands.

 **Sharon:** nat has no plans either. what were you thinking?

Maria doesn’t actually know how they’re all going to react to her suggestion. Especially since it’s not exactly legal, and they all love to tease her about being a stickler for the rules.

Which isn’t true, okay. She’s fine with breaking rules, she’d just never do it for the sake of it. That seems pointlessly reckless. And she’s fully aware that if they go ahead with her plan they won’t just be breaking a school rule but the actual law, but the risk is very, very minimal. She thinks it will be worth it. 

All she can do is try. If they aren’t up for her first suggestion, maybe they can all have another sleepover or something. So long as it isn’t at her house again.

 **Maria:** Okay. So. I have a friend who hangs out in this bar in Williamsburg all the time, and she says they’ll be quiet tomorrow and that they wouldn’t mind letting us in. I thought maybe we could have our first real night out?

 **Nat:** ::::[[[[

 **Maria:** ??

 **Sharon:** it’s supposed to be a spider it means yes, just ignore her

How is that a spider? 

**Helen:** I see it!! With the 8 eyes and then 8 legs? That’s pretty clever

 **Nat:** *(^o^)*

 **Helen:** :)

 **Helen:** Oh and yes I can come of course! Um I don’t really want to drink though

Maria should probably have made that aspect of it clearer, she thinks. This definitely isn’t going to be some kind of wild night out. Absolutely no-one is going to get drunk, and _especially_ no-one is going to throw up.

She winces at that thought. Dr Garner, the school therapist, only works when school’s in session - obviously. So it’s been at least three weeks since Helen’s last appointment with him. Maria hopes that she’s doing okay. Maybe she can message her later and ask, or maybe that would just make her seem overbearing. She can think of a pros and cons list when she’s finished with this conversation.

 **Maria:** Drinking 100% optional. The bartender’s a friend of mine, they'd only serve us maybe a bottle of wine or something and then cut us off anyway.

Honestly, she wouldn’t be surprised if they’re all given virgin cocktails the entire night. That isn’t the point. She just wants to be somewhere that isn’t her own house that evening, and going to a real bar will feel like a nice, grown-up occasion. She’s hoping, anyway.

 **Sharon:** my cousin peggy is in town and my parents are going to some boring dinner party, can I bring her?

 **Helen:** And can we ask Bucky as well please??

Oh. She hadn’t even thought of that. Why hadn’t she? It had never occurred to her to mind when Bucky had asked everyone in the group to use gender-neutral pronouns, and she’s proud that she’s managed to make the switch without slipping up too many times, but other than that one change and a quick internet search to make sure she knew exactly what being non-binary meant, she hasn’t really thought much about Bucky’s identity. 

Which isn’t right, she thinks, frowning to herself. Bucky isn’t a guy who just happens to use neutral pronouns, and they aren’t a girl either, but there’s no reason that they shouldn’t be invited on this night out.

She wonders if she should have invited the guys in the group as well, but quickly dismisses the idea. Apart from anything else, they need to keep this night as casual and relaxed as possible - they don’t want to draw any attention to themselves; Maria’s well aware that even if they aren’t drinking it will be illegal for them to even sit in the bar after a certain time.

But Bucky isn’t a guy.

 **Maria:** Of course Sharon, and yes Helen I’ll message them now. 

**Maria:** Thanks for thinking of that.

_I should have been the one to think of it._

But there’s no point beating herself up about it. She’ll remember now, and do better next time. 

She has to go on Bucky’s profile to message them; it’s been a while since just the two of them had talked. 

**Maria:** Hi Bucky. A few of us (me, Helen, Nat, Sharon and Sharon’s cousin) are going to a bar tomorrow night to ring in the New Year. Want to join? You’d be more than welcome.

She hates how formal she always sounds when she messages people, but she doesn’t hate it enough to make a deliberate effort to change anything. She could probably mimic, say, the way Sharon writes, which is understandable but still casual, but she would rather stick to what comes naturally to her. Even if it makes people think she’s stuck-up and overly serious.

The little tick appears that means Bucky’s read the message.

Then the dots that mean they’re writing.

Then the dots disappear again.

Facebook is the absolute worst, Maria can’t help but think. She clicks into a new tab and opens up the army.mil website, scrolling through quickly to check there’s no new posts she should read.

By the time she clicks back to Facebook, Bucky’s replied.

 **Bucky:** thanks Maria :) means a lot but my mom’s going out so i already said i’d watch my sisters

 **Maria:** Shame, well maybe next time.

 **Bucky:** sure maybe, thanks again

Maria doesn’t know if Bucky honestly means that they’d like to join whatever the next occasion ends up being, or if they’re just being polite. Maybe they wanted to turn down any invitations to future events as well, but hadn't want to hurt her feelings.

She wishes that everyone would just say exactly what they mean. It would make life so much easier.

 **Maria:** I hope you enjoy your evening and get to watch the countdown on the TV or something at least.

 **Bucky:** yeah Becca is super excited she made her own ‘ball’ (it’s basically a scrunched up newspaper with a shit ton of glitter glue lol) to drop. and yeah i’ll be good thanks :) going to give Sam a call in DC see how he’s doing.

Maria frowns at the screen. Sam? Steve is Bucky’s closest friend, and they and Sam do hang out a fair bit, but calling someone on New Year’s Eve seems like it would be quite a personal thing to do.

Anyway. It’s none of her business. Plus, she wouldn’t be surprised if there turns out to be a lot going on with the group dynamics that she isn’t fully aware of; this last semester she’s been mostly focused on Helen and James.

 **Maria:** Sounds good. See you back at school.

 **Bucky:** yeah see you enjoy your night out!

Okay. Well, she’d tried, which is the main thing. And hopefully Bucky really had meant it when they’d said they might join next time.

She goes back to the group chat, surprised to see that nobody’s posted any weird gifs in her absence. Probably Sharon and Nat are messaging each other at the same time.

 **Maria:** So Bucky is babysitting and also they’re planning to ring Sam tomorrow night so that’s a no from them. They said thanks for the invite though.

 **Nat:** :o

 **Sharon:** awwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww times infinity

 **Helen:** !!! that’s so cute I wonder if they meant right before midnight?!

Maria sighs out loud. If she lets this carry on then everyone will get sidetracked for at least half an hour, and she needs to have the plans for tomorrow sorted out soon. Not for any logistical reasons, just for the sake of her sanity.

 **Maria:** I don’t know, we can gossip about this later. Can you all meet me at 7 outside the Bedford Ave station?

 **Helen:** Sure thing! Are we dressing up?

She isn’t completely sure what dressing up means. It’s not like she’d been planning on going in jeans and a t-shirt, but she’s absolutely not going to wear anything revealing. 

**Sharon:** i mean it’s nye we have to dress up at least a bit

 **Maria:** Doesn’t matter either way, but yeah sure if you all want to.

She can wear that navy suit jacket her mom bought her over a dress or slacks, or something along those lines. Most likely she’ll look like she’s going to a corporate interview, but she doesn’t really care about that. It’s better than her trying to wear a crop top or a miniskirt and constantly wanting to hide under the table the entire night.

 **Nat:** ]]]]::::

Seriously? Does a backwards spider mean no, or something? Nat should come with a manual, Maria thinks, then instantly feels bad for the thought. Especially since Nat had told everyone - over Facebook, which is at least an easy way to break news, even if it’s also an impersonal one - about her parents splitting up at the start of the holiday.

 **Sharon:** wear whatever you want babe you’d look good in a garbage bag ffs

Maria decides to ignore that. She wouldn't actually put it past Nat to show up in a literal garbage bag, just to prove some kind of weird point, but she's going to trust that she has some sense of discretion. Or if that fails, the average temperature of a December evening in New York should put paid to the idea.

She’s got agreements from everyone, that’s the main thing.

 **Maria:** Okay see you tomorrow at 7! Looking forward to it x

 **Helen:** Me too! :) xx

 **Sharon:** yo tambien 

**Nat:** ┏(＾0＾)┛┗(＾0＾) ┓

 **Maria:** ....I’m not even going to ask.

* * *

Maria smooths down her jacket - unnecessarily, she had only ironed it a few hours ago - before leading the way into the bar. Helen looks very uneasy, and even Nat and Sharon aren’t quite projecting their usual level of confidence. The only one of their little group who seems completely comfortable with the situation is Peggy, Sharon’s cousin, and Maria’s pretty sure that Peggy’s a few years older than them so that’s most likely why.

She opens the door, glad to see that Trish had been right; the bar really is almost dead. There’s a few people, but she recognises them all - by sight, if not by name - so hopefully it will turn out to just be regulars here tonight.

“Maria!”

Maria hugs Trish quickly. “Hey. Thanks so much for this. We all needed a bit of a distraction.”

Trish looks at her, much too knowingly, and Maria suppresses the immediate urge to break eye contact.

Then Trish looks past her to the others, who are standing just a little behind Maria - as if she’s some kind of human shield. “Welcome, ladies,” Trish says with a grand wave of her arms. “to the Horseshoe Bar.” 

Maria tries to look around as though she’s seeing the place for the first time. Which isn’t hard; she hasn’t been here all that often, really. It’s modelled on a British pub, though she doesn’t know how accurate it is. Maybe Peggy will have a few suggestions to make.

The others are all looking round curiously from the doorway, and she wonders if they’re liking everything so far. She knows that this is just slightly out of everyone’s comfort zones, and she hopes that nobody’s feeling too uncomfortable.

“If you take a look at the bar, you can see our lead bartender and the head of security arguing over which of our rums is superior,” Trish continues with a very sly look on her face, and Maria suppresses a smile. She loves watching people fail this test, but at the same time she really hopes that her friends will pass.

The other four look over at the bar, where a very thin white woman is scowling at a black guy who’s literally three times her size.

“Who’s who?” Sharon says with barely a moment’s pause, and Maria lets her smile show on her face.

“It’s obvious,” Nat says in her most bored voice. 

Trish laughs loudly. “I knew Maria’s friends would be worth breaking the law for. Yeah, Jess is our security, and Luke owns the bar and has a ridiculous number of qualifications in mixology.”

“Ooh. Can he make me a proper Boston sour?” Peggy asks. “We don’t do them right in the UK.”

“Almost definitely,” Trish says, with a quick grin at Peggy. “And for you babies, Luke's made a new recipe, just for you. Go ask him about it.”

They make their way over, and Jessica and Luke turn to face them. The juxtaposition between the two of them strikes Maria all over again; Luke looks like he could pick them all up and throw them across the room, but he’s greeting them with a kind, welcoming smile, and Jessica is tiny - though very far from weak, Maria knows - and has an angry-looking frown on her face.

Maria isn’t going to take that personally, but obviously the others might.

“Everyone, this is Luke Cage and Jessica Jones,” she says. “Hi, guys. Thanks for having us.”

“Thanks for giving Jess a chance to break the law,” Luke says wryly, pouring some kind of bright pink liquid into a cocktail shaker. “She’s been itching to cause trouble for a while.”

Maria can believe that. “Well, we’re planning on a quiet night,” she says. “Trish said you made a new cocktail for us? You didn’t have to do that.”

Jessica rolls her eyes. “Please. He’ll take any excuse.”

“It’s based on a strawberry margarita,” Luke says, slicing up a lemon without even looking down at his hands. “But without most of the booze. Just a dash of triple sec. Gives it a bit of a kick, but it won’t get you drunk.”

“Sounds perfect,” Sharon says politely. “Thank you so much.”

“So you have a regular margarita,” Jessica says, and Maria spares a moment to hope that she isn’t about to say something wildly inappropriate. “And then you have a virgin one. And then you have this.” She looks considering for a moment. “This one is kind of like if you get fingered for a few seconds and you aren’t sure if it means you’ve had sex or not.”

Maria tries very hard to keep her face expressionless. From the choked little sound Helen makes and the giggle from Sharon’s direction, she’s pretty sure she’s the only one making the attempt.

“How much do we owe you?” she asks Luke, firmly ignoring Jessica.

Luke is busy coating the rims of their glasses in sugar or something, so he take a few moments to answer. “Uh, five each?”

That seems suspiciously cheap, even for a mostly alcohol-free cocktail. She hands Jessica a ten and refuses change, hoping that the others will follow her lead.

Luke mixes up three cocktails, then a completely alcohol-free version for Helen, and then Peggy’s drink, which involves cracking an egg for some reason that Maria doesn’t quite pick up on.

They all sit down in a booth, one with a good view of a TV - although it’s not even eight o’clock yet; maybe Maria should have arranged the meet-up for slightly later. She just hadn’t wanted anyone making their way on their own; she’s already borrowed some money from her mom to make sure they can all share a cab, even Nat in Queens. 

As soon as they’re all seated, Sharon looks at Maria. “So, how do you know these people?” she asks curiously.

Maria takes a sip of her drink. Which is actually very nice, though a little sweet for her. She had expected that question to come up, obviously, it would have been strange if no-one had thought to ask. But she hadn’t yet decided exactly how she was going to answer it.

“Trish teaches the self-defence class that I go to over in Greenpoint,” she says, knowing that it isn’t quite a sufficient explanation. “Jessica is her girlfriend, and Luke is Jessica’s boyfriend.”

“Okay,” Sharon says, drawing the word out slowly.

Maria braces herself for at least a few follow-up questions. That story is true, every word of it. There’s just quite a lot of words that she’s leaving unspoken. Like how she’d first signed up for self-defence classes when she was fourteen and had noticed the way her mom’s new boyfriend was looking at her. Or how she had broken down crying in class one day, and how Trish had held her for ages and told her over and over again that everything was going to be alright.

These are not things she feels the need to share, not even with her closest friends.

“I love your outfit, Nat,” Helen interrupts, and Maria shoots her a grateful look. 

Everyone looks at what Nat’s wearing.

Sharon and Helen are in outfits that sort of hover between practical and fancy: low heels and simple dresses. Sharon’s dress is a bright shade of blue, while Helen’s is black with a white pattern of birds and flowers.

Peggy is definitely the most dressed up out of the five of them, but she’s easily confident enough to pull off the fifties-style cocktail dress and the bright red lipstick. Actually, even though Peggy’s the odd one out when it comes to the amount of effort she's put into getting ready, Maria sort of feels like the effect of her presence makes everyone else feel underdressed, rather than the other way around.

And then there’s Nat.

Maria hadn’t even dared to hope that Nat would wear something normal, but she had at least spared a second to wonder just how unusual it would be.

“Thank you, Helen,” Nat says proudly, smoothing down her already-smooth leather catsuit.

“Very MI6,” Peggy says in an approving voice, and - wow, is Nat _blushing_ slightly?

Maria decides that a subject change is in order; Nat sometimes gets embarrassed when she shows an emotion too obviously. And then she gets annoyed at her embarrassment, which is a really frustrating spiral to watch.

“So, Peggy,” she says. “How long are you planning to stay in New York for?”

“Ninety days,” is the reply. “As long as I can, basically. I love this city, and I have no idea what I want to do with the rest of my life, so I thought I’d come see my baby cousin.”

Sharon rolls her eyes. “Peg, stop making it sound like you’re a clueless gap year student with no prospects. You graduated from fucking Oxford a few months ago, you deserve a year’s break.”

“That’s impressive,” Maria says, because it is. “What did you study?”

“History,” Peggy says. “Very practical, I know. But enough about me! What do all of you have planned for the future?”

“Not sure,” Sharon says, looking down at the table. “You know my grades aren’t going to be good enough for a lot of places.”

“Grades aren’t everything,” Peggy says, which is probably true but is also not the easiest statement for someone in their final year of high school to take at face value, not when half their teachers make it sound like their final marks will literally decide their entire futures.

“Yeah,” Sharon says, then looks around. “Um. I’m actually thinking of joining the NYPD.”

Oh. Maria hadn’t known that, but now that she thinks about it, Sharon would be an excellent police officer. She’s good at staying calm in high-pressure situations, she’s kind without ever being a pushover, and she has a strong but not unbending moral code. 

And Maria’s starting to sound like she’s writing a person specification inside her head. The point is, Sharon would be a great fit for the NYPD, and Maria is going to find a way to tell her that later.

“You’d be amazing at that,” Helen says, echoing Maria’s thoughts. “Um, I’m going to be a doctor,” she continues, and Maria waits for the usual caveat. “Hopefully.” There it is.

“You’re going to be a great doctor,” Maria says, then wishes she hadn’t because she’s now drawn everyone’s attention to her. “And I’m not going to college, at least not yet,” she says to Peggy. “I’m enlisting after the summer break.”

“Oh, wow,” Peggy says, with an expression on her face that Maria can’t read. “Good for you. I wish you all the best with it.”

Maria casts around for another subject change, since she doesn’t want to go into her decision yet again. It had taken the others long enough to fully accept - actually, she isn’t quite sure whether they _have_ accepted it, or are just pretending to for her sake. “Nat, you’re still hoping to go to NYU, right?”

Nat nods. “Double-major in Criminology and Media Studies with a minor in Russian.”

That’s - impressive, and also impressively weird, which kind of sums Nat up. Maria had only known about the Russian, actually; Nat hasn’t spoken much about her plans for the future.

Maria hears a loud noise, and looks over to see that someone’s flung the door to the bar open violently. Her first thought is _police,_ but before she can start to panic, she sees that it’s just a group of - probably drunk - guys. Not ideal, but definitely better than them all getting arrested.

She looks over at Luke and Jessica, who are doing that thing they do where they communicate whole sentences to each other with just a twitch of their eyebrows or one mouthed word. She guesses that they’re trying to decide whether or not to serve the guys.

Luke eventually grabs a few beer bottles out of the fridge and - reluctantly, Maria thinks, though she can’t be sure - starts flipping the caps off. The guys pay cash, which is good. If they’d started a tab, that would imply they were planning on staying till the countdown, and Maria would really rather that didn’t happen.

Most likely they’re doing some kind of New Year’s Eve bar crawl, and will be out the door again as soon as they’ve downed the obligatory drink.

She tunes back into the conversation, only to find that she hadn’t really needed to. Sharon and Helen are gossiping about whatever’s going on with Sam and Bucky - over-using the word _adorable_ in the process, Maria thinks to herself - and Nat and Peggy are engrossed in a quiet conversation that Maria can’t really hear over the new noise of the bar-crawl group.

“I’m just going to the bathroom,” she says to no-one, and slips out of the booth - she’s very glad she sat on one end of the bench, rather than being trapped in the middle.

She doesn’t actually need to use the toilet, but she takes a moment to splash a few drops of cold water on her face, and then spends an unproductive two minutes staring at herself in the mirror.

 _Pull yourself together,_ she says inside her head, and stands as tall as she can - which is very, for her.

She walks out of the bathroom, holding her head high, but then stops in her tracks when she sees the group of guys hovering by the booth the girls are sat in. She glances at the bar to see that Luke, Jess, and Trish are all watching the situation closely, which makes her feel a bit better.

Not much, though.

She can’t tell if any of her friends want the guys to be talking to them. She sort of assumes not, but maybe she’s just projecting.

“Any of you lovely ladies fancy joining us when we head to a club?” one guys asks, with an expression that Maria would definitely describe as a leer.

“We’re still - um.” 

Maria’s pretty sure that someone had just kicked Helen under the table mid-sentence, which she feels bad about being grateful for. It had sounded like Helen was about to say _we’re still in high school,_ and while these guys almost definitely aren’t the type to call the cops, it’s really not worth the risk.

“No thanks,” Peggy says, and she manages to sound dismissive without being rude. “We’re heading home soon.”

“Where’s home?” another guy says, which Maria thinks is an unbelievably stupid question to ask. Is he really expecting them all to hand over their addresses?

“Well, England for me,” Peggy replies, looking bored. “New York for everyone else.”

“And where are you from?” the guy asks Helen, and Maria immediately wants to punch him in the face. 

“Bushwick,” Helen says in a small voice.

The guy looks annoyed. “No, where are you _from?_ ”

Maria wishes that Helen was the kind of person who would be able to make a sharp retort to a racist question like that, but then she wouldn’t be Helen, so that’s a pointless thought.

“It’s none of your damn business,” Peggy says sharply, and her bored expression is definitely shading towards plain old angry. “We’re just trying to have a drink in peace.”

“Originally from South Korea,” Helen says quietly, shifting a little closer towards Peggy.

The guy looks like he doesn’t know whether to be horrified or delighted by that reply. Maria really, really wants to punch him. So much. “Oh my god,” he says. “So you, like, escaped? Did you have to bribe the guards? Did they try to -”

“That’s enough,” Maria says, only a little surprised to hear her voice coming out like steel. “Leave her alone.”

“And that’s the completely wrong country, you moron,” Sharon says, looking more pissed off than Maria’s ever seen her.

Nat isn’t saying anything, but she’s watching the guys with a very worrying look on her face.

“Get out,” comes a familiar voice from behind Maria, who immediately feels a rush of relief. “Get out, now. And don’t come back.”

The guys all turn, maybe to protest, but when they see Jessica standing there with Trish and Luke behind her, all looking at them with varying degrees of what Maria’s pretty sure would be called _murderous_ expressions, they sensibly decide to listen.

They put down their drinks and head out - not without a few last surly comments, but Maria doesn’t care about that right now. They’re gone, and she can relax.

She can relax.

 _Relax,_ she orders her body and brain, only it doesn’t work.

“Maria?” Trish says, sounding more than a little worried.

Maria forces herself to sit back down. “I’m fine,” she says, in a voice that somehow comes out steady. “Helen? Are you okay?”

Helen looks a little shaken, but not too badly. “Yeah. It’s nothing I haven’t heard before, you know? I just - I wasn’t expecting it right now, I guess.”

“We’re sorry,” Luke says quietly, to all of them. “We shouldn’t have let them in.”

“You couldn’t have known,” Peggy says. “It isn’t your fault.”

Maria looks round the booth, wanting to check in on everyone. No-one looks too upset, except for - 

“Nat?” she says, hoping that she doesn’t sound startled. Of all the people to be unfazed by a situation like this, she would have put Nat right at the top of the list. 

Nat is looking very hard at the table, and she’s blinking just a little too fast. Her hair is tied into a neat braid, so she can’t hide behind it, but Maria gets the feeling that she’d really like to.

“They kept staring at my chest,” she says in a near-silent voice. “I hate it when people do that.”

“Bastards,” Peggy says loudly. 

“It’s my Jean Grey cosplay outfit,” Nat continues, still in the softest voice Maria’s ever heard from her. “It’s not supposed to be - sexy.”

Maria looks again at Nat’s catsuit. She has no idea who Jean Grey is, but she guesses that she must be one of Nat’s - many - favourite characters. Maybe Nat had wanted to wear the outfit to channel some extra confidence, or because she was in an particularly nerdy mood, or just because she'd felt like it.

It doesn’t matter why she’d worn it, anyway. Even if she _had_ worn it to look sexy, that wouldn’t make any difference.

Sharon puts her arm around Nat; very slowly, probably so that Nat can move away if she wants to. 

“I’m so sorry,” Sharon says. “They had no right. There’s never any excuse.”

Nat takes in a deep breath, then lets it out. “Yeah. I - I want to tell you guys something.”

“I can go,” Peggy offers quickly. “You don’t really know me, I don’t want to intrude.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Maria notices that Luke, Jessica and Trish have retreated behind the bar, probably to give them all some privacy. There are no other customers anymore, and Maria doubts anyone else will be showing up now. 

“No, you can stay,” Nat says, leaning a little into Sharon. “But thanks. I’m - I’m.”

Maria holds her breath.

“I’m asexual,” Nat says, very quickly, still in the direction of the table. “I only figured it out a few weeks ago. So - I forget, sometimes, that people sexualise me, because I don’t think of myself that way.”

Maria sort of knows what being asexual is, but not well enough to feel comfortable saying anything right now. She desperately hopes that someone else in the group is more clued-up than she is.

“Thank you for telling us, Nat,” Helen says gently. Oh, of course. Helen’s been researching a lot of LG - LBT - Helen’s been researching all that sort of thing, Maria remembers, in preparation for being a doctor. “We’re here for you, always, you know that.”

“And if anyone makes any plant jokes, I’ll kick their ass,” Sharon adds, which confuses Maria - where do plants come into it?

“I hate it so much when people hit on me,” Nat confesses, finally glancing around at everyone. “I know that sounds weird.”

“Not at all,” Peggy says, smiling warmly at Nat. “And even if it did, weird isn’t bad.”

“Sorry to be a downer,” Nat says, scrunching her nose up.

Maria decides that she really needs to speak up at some point. It’s her fault all this has happened, after all - indirectly, but still. “Don’t be silly,” she says, wishing that she could think of better words. “You aren’t at fault here. I second Helen, thank you for telling us.”

“It’s not your fault either, Maria,” Sharon points out, frowning at her.

“Yeah,” is all Maria says, because she doesn’t want to properly agree, but she doesn’t want to start a disagreement either.

“Well,” Peggy says. “We can still have a nice evening until the countdown, I think. Or if you all want to head home, that would be fine as well.”

“Let’s stay,” Nat says, and the others all nod.

Peggy grins. “Wonderful.” She waves at the bar, and Trish comes over. “Another round of their personal cocktails. Oh, and I’ll have - hmm, let me see. Sex on the Beach?” she says, with a wicked little smile.

Trish winks at her. “Coming right up, ladies,” she says. “This round’s on us.” She holds up her hand instantly. “Nope, no arguing. Or you can argue with Luke and Jess, if you desperately want to.”

“Thanks, Trish,” Maria says, grateful beyond words that this night might turn out okay after all.

* * *

Everyone’s a little more subdued than they might otherwise have been for the rest of the evening, but that’s more than understandable. And they have the whole bar to themselves, and when it’s finally time for the countdown they all join in, and then Peggy leads them in a rousing chorus of ‘Auld Lang Syne.’

It hasn’t been a perfect night, which Maria’s sorry for. But it hasn’t been as bad as it could have been, either.

Sharon and Peggy take the subway, which Maria accepts since at least they’re together. She makes Sharon promise to text when they’re home safe, though.

Maria, Helen, and Nat call a cab, and they pile into the backseat after a round of _goodbyes_ and _thank yous_ between them and Luke, Jessica and Trish.

“What are your New Year’s resolutions?” Helen asks them quietly, after Maria’s given the cab driver the order in which they want to be dropped off - with her last, of course.

Maria has to take a few moments to think about that. 

“Leave home,” she settles on, because it feels like the most important. “Pass basic. Make it to fifty push-ups without a break?”

“I might come out to the rest of the group,” Nat says. “And I want to be able to do the splits. That would be pretty cool. Oh, and I want to reread every Discworld book.”

Helen laughs. “Sounds good. I don’t even know mine, to be honest. Get into college?”

“That’s a fairly standard one,” Maria points out.

“Hmm. True.” Helen looks out of the window. “I want to make sure we all stay in touch, after finals. I don’t want us to be that friend group that just sends each other Christmas cards, or runs into each other at school reunions, you know? I - we should stay friends.”

“That’s a good resolution,” Nat says softly, and Maria’s startled to feel a few tears prickling behind her eyes.

“It is,” she agrees, and they fall silent, all lost in their own thoughts, watching through the windows as the Brooklyn streets pass them by.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A conversation with myself:  
> Me: ohhh help there are so many characters already how can I do them all justice??  
> Also Me: isn’t it a shame that Peggy isn’t in this?  
> Also Me: here’s a really cool plotline idea involving her  
> Me: ……….okay FINE you win.
> 
> So sorry if it takes me a while to get to some promised scenes (e.g. more Clint, more Rhodey, Sam’s mom) - they are not forgotten I swear!
> 
> For those of you who are now anxious about Maria and her future plotline, I 100% promise that this is as dark as this aspect of her story (i.e. her stepdad) gets. I'm not sure what she's going to be doing in the future but yeah just so you know, I won't go back on that.
> 
> I don’t actually ship either Luke/Jessica or Jessica/Trish in ‘Jessica Jones,’ at all but this is a no-powers AU so I guess they all met at college or something like that? I just needed characters that could plausibly run a bar tbh (and of course they should not have let anyone underage in, I’m not condoning that).
> 
> Hope you liked, more Peggy and lots of Bucky in the next chapter, back to Sam POV in Chapter 9. As I said in the beginning note, feedback on this chapter (positive and negative!) would be really appreciated. Thank you all so much for the comments so far!


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s like they’re in some kind of club so secret that even the other members don’t talk to each other - except maybe they _do,_ maybe Bucky is the only one that feels excluded and alone.
> 
> They know how unlikely that is even as they think it, but that doesn’t actually get rid of the thought.
> 
> Not for the first time, Bucky feels a rising sense of frustration that they don’t really want to wear dresses or much make-up or anything, and especially not on a daily basis. That would make their life harder in a whole different way, sure, and they’re probably underestimating just how badly some people might react, but - well.
> 
> Is is worse to be invisible but accepted - conditionally, of course - or known and reviled?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have good and bad news! Good first: a) this fic has over 700 hits, which is just amazing, thank you all so much! b) with this chapter posting, it will beat my trans!Steve fic to become the longest thing I have ever written (and still growing!) which is very cool, and finally: 
> 
> c) there is art!!! The wonderful [Onychophora](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Onychophora/pseuds/Onychophora) has drawn a beautiful picture of an image from Chapter 2, which you can see [here,](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8035726) check it out and leave it some love, I am so happy to have indirectly inspired such a lovely drawing!! 
> 
> Less nice news: work is a bit not good right now; I had a 20-hour day the other day (5.30am to 1.20am, I don't actually remember getting home lol) and so obviously when I'm not at work I am occupied with my favourite activity which (sadly) is currently not writing, but Sleep. So chapter updates will be a lot slower for a while. I think I can guarantee one a week though for sure :)
> 
> Thank you all so much for reading <3
> 
> Chapter warnings: internalised transphobia, transmisogyny, physical dysphoria, brief mention of bulimia. Spoilery chapter summary in end notes for those that would prefer to skip, or message me and I'll try to write a non-spoilery one for you.

* * *

Bucky hadn’t been able to see Sam before classes started, which they’re very annoyed about. Their mom had been up all night with Alice, who has some kind of chest infection. So Bucky had been the one to get Becca ready for school and to walk her there, which had resulted in them running into their chem class five minutes late.

They’ll just have to wait until lunchtime. Which is only three hours away, and it had been twenty-four days since they’d last seen Sam, so three more hours really shouldn’t be a big deal.

Bucky twitches as their lab partner, Jemma, elbows them. “Pay attention,” she hisses. “You’re going to be pouring acid in a few minutes; if you start daydreaming you’ll wind up with skin grafts.”

That’s an unnecessarily graphic warning, Bucky can’t help but feel, but they nod in silent apology.

Three hours. They can definitely manage to not think about Sam for three hours.

* * *

Bucky had somehow managed to forget that even when the three hours were up - with no major chemical burns, thankfully - they wouldn’t be seeing _just_ Sam. They’d be in their usual big group, with no chance to kiss or hold hands or do anything other than exchange pleasantries about how their holidays had gone.

This is torture.

Or, okay, probably not. But it’s very fucking annoying, to say the least.

Steve makes a small choking noise next to Bucky, so they look up. Oh. There’s someone new at their lunch table. That’s - very weird. Not that it’s never happened, exactly, but it’s pretty rare. 

“Everyone, hush up,” Sharon says over the noise of the canteen. “This is my cousin, Peggy, from England.” Oh, of course. Maria had mentioned something about Sharon’s cousin, though Bucky had assumed she had just been visiting for the holiday. “She’s thinking of training to be a teacher, so she asked if she could observe a few classes while she’s staying with me.”

Peggy inclines her head, sort of _regally,_ in response to the chorus of greetings she gets. She’s gorgeous; Bucky can see why Steve’s drink had gone down the wrong way when he’d seen her - though they really hope that it was just a gut reaction to someone attractive and that Steve isn’t going to develop any kind of crush; that would be a terrible situation for Sharon and Peggy to be in.

“Lovely to meet you all,” Peggy says, then glances around the table. Bucky realises that there actually is one empty seat today - Tony’s probably still in the science labs, tinkering away with something that hopefully won’t blow up in his face - and it’s opposite them.

Peggy makes her way over and sits down, pulling a packed lunch - sensible; Bucky can’t imagine why anyone want to go back to high school canteen food after graduating - out of her bag.

“Hi,” she says, and it takes Bucky a second to realise that she’s talking to them.

“Ah, hi,” they say awkwardly. “I’m Bucky. Nice to meet you.”

Peggy is the sort of person who gives off the vibe that implies they don’t even know the meaning of awkward. People like that always manage to make Bucky feel insecure just by existing.

“I’m Steve,” Steve says, and Bucky hopes they’re imagining the eagerness in his voice. They kick his ankle under the table, just in case.

“So,” Peggy says, carefully unwrapping a sandwich. “Is the history teacher here good?”

Steve opens his mouth immediately, even though he doesn’t even _take_ fucking history. “Dr Fury,” he says. “He’s sort of - terrifying.”

“But he’s a good teacher,” Bucky says, feeling like they should contribute since they’re actually taught by the guy. Steve had always loved history when the two of them were younger; Bucky still doesn’t understand why he’d dropped it. He’s probably regretting it right now.

Peggy nods. “What are you studying at the moment?”

“Mostly the Cold War,” Bucky says. “Again. And we’ve covered World War Two and Vietnam, and when Fury doesn’t feel like teaching the syllabus we do a lot of early twentieth century NYC history. Those are the best days.”

She looks thoughtful. “That sounds interesting. Sorry for all the questions, by the way. I’m just curious about the differences between the British system and the American.”

“No problem. Have you asked if you can sit in on any of his classes yet?”

“I asked at reception and they were a bit - noncommittal,” Peggy says, which Bucky guesses is a diplomatic way of saying the receptionist had been too scared to call Fury and ask him.

“I’ve got him next period. You can always come with me and see if he’s alright with you staying,” Bucky offers. “I bet if you offered to do a talk on something British he’d say yes.”

“Wonderful,” Peggy says. “Thanks so much, Bucky.”

“No problem.” 

Well, when she smiles like that, they can’t really blame Steve for being a bit of an idiot just now.

* * *

Fury seems to - reluctantly, but still - love Peggy from the first question she asks in class, which is something about the impact the 1912 textiles workers strike had on the rights of female immigrants over the following decade.

Bucky is pretty impressed, actually; she’s managed to keep a conversation going with Fury for over twenty minutes without him once using any variation on the word _incompetent._ She’d make an excellent teacher, they can already tell.

They aren’t really paying enough attention to what’s going on, even though they’re genuinely finding the topics interesting; they’re still annoyed that they’ve been in the same building as Sam for over four hours and haven’t yet been able to kiss him, and their mind is busy replaying the same highlights reel of their Coney Island date that had kept them going through the holiday.

“And what about transgender people?” Peggy says in a tone that’s more than a little challenging, and Bucky suddenly feels like their heart is about to explode out of their chest.

Fury doesn’t look annoyed at the question. “In what respect, Ms Carter?”

“In the _city,”_ Peggy says, sounding more than a little frustrated. “You talk a lot about Brooklyn history - well, what about how damn queer it was, back in the thirties and forties? There are plenty of stories about men in dresses and women in suits, what kind of impact would that have had on the community? And how many of those men in dresses were really women at heart, and vice versa?”

“That’s a very impassioned speech,” Fury says, looking closely at Peggy. He holds up a hand as soon as she opens her mouth again. “And you’re not wrong. Far from it, though of course we have to be careful not to impose modern definitions on historical people.”

Bucky isn’t even trying to follow what Fury’s saying, even though they do really want to know this kind of history, and they aren’t watching their classmates to figure out their reactions to this conversation.

No, every bit of their attention is focused on Peggy, because - that speech could have been the words of a vocal ally, sure; hell, Steve’s probably gone off on rants like that a time or two, but - it had sounded _personal,_ and Bucky’s heart refuses to stop racing.

They’re categorising things about her without even meaning to: the shape of her hands where they’re resting on the table, the curve of her neck in profile, the almost too-perfect way her make-up contours her face.

And then they remember Sharon acting just a little odd after Bucky had come out, just enough to set off a few warning bells in their head. They had actually wondered if she was mildly transphobic or something at first, but hadn’t wanted to try calling her out on it.

Steve hadn’t had any such compunctions, being Steve, and the resulting conversation between the three of them was a really good memory of theirs - the fact that Steve had been willing to confront his crush over something that could potentially cause a whole lot of drama, all because of Bucky, had been yet another defining moment in their friendship.

Sharon had been very apologetic, and had said that she knew she’d been a bit weird lately, but that she was definitely not transphobic in any way at all. Bucky still remembered the feeling they’d got when she’d said that so emphatically - the way she’d phrased it was kind of like she found the idea absurd for reasons she wasn’t sharing, and Bucky had even wondered for a moment if maybe _Sharon_ was trans.

Thinking back, her words make even more sense if they think about them in this new context, of Sharon already being close to someone who’s trans but obviously not wanting to out them. She had definitely been holding something back, Bucky’s certain of that much, but they can’t exactly ask either Peggy or Sharon to clarify.

Not that they need to, anyway. It really isn’t any of their business. It’s just - they know they’ve probably met other trans people, statistically speaking, but they’ve never known about it. Or even when they make a guess about someone - like that one person they’d seen in the bookstore over the holidays, who’d had a hell of a lot of trans pride badges on their backpack and who, again, _could_ have been an outspoken ally, but Bucky didn’t think so - it’s not like they can go up and say hi, can they? 

It’s like they’re in some kind of club so secret that even the other members don’t talk to each other - except maybe they _do,_ maybe Bucky is the only one that feels excluded and alone.

They know how unlikely that is even as they think it, but that doesn’t actually get rid of the thought.

Not for the first time, Bucky feels a rising sense of frustration that they don’t really want to wear dresses or much make-up or anything, and especially not on a daily basis. That would make their life harder in a whole different way, sure, and they’re probably underestimating just how badly some people might react, but - well.

Is is worse to be invisible but accepted - conditionally, of course - or known and reviled?

Bucky knows that you can’t really compare it all as simply as that, but apparently their brain is in a mood to think in extremes today. Which is kind of ironic, considering the whole non-binary thing.

The feeling of frustration only intensifies when Peggy catches their eye.

She smiles, and it makes her look even more beautiful.

Bucky hates that one of the reasons they aren’t sure if she’s trans is that she’s so conventionally attractive. That’s so fucking fucked up; they know it is, and they still can’t stop thinking about it.

They look back down at their desk, staring at the few incomprehensible notes they’ve scribbled down, wondering if it’s even worth the effort to decipher them.

“I’m going to the bathroom,” they say abruptly, standing up and wincing as their chair scrapes against the floor.

Fury lets them go, which probably qualifies as a minor miracle - or maybe he’d seen something in their expression that had alerted him to the fact that they were about to have a nervous breakdown if they didn’t get right the fuck out.

Bucky does go to the bathroom, but only to stare at themself in the tiny, cracked mirror that hangs crooked over one sink. They remember how the mirrors in the girls’ bathroom had been big enough to see your whole torso, and clean enough to give a good reflection.

They decide to stop trying to think of some shitty analogy about gender and mirrors.

They look at themself, at their stubble and their eyebrows and the way their pulled-back hair emphasises the shape of their jawline.

They take out their phone and stare at it for a while, thinking about all the people they know, and all the people that know them.

Then they pull up Maria’s number, and send a quick text.

**If you’re free after school, I could use your help with something.**

Bucky hits send as soon as they’ve finished typing, not wanting to second-guess themself too much.

There. Done.

No going back now.

* * *

Bucky is sitting on Maria’s bed, with Maria on her desk chair and Helen - Maria had already invited her round, and Bucky had said that was fine without really thinking it through - perched at the other end of the bed.

They’re trying to find literally any way to say what they need to. 

“I actually wanted to talk to you both,” Helen says suddenly, then falls silent.

“Go ahead,” Bucky says to her, after a few seconds have gone by. They’re pretty sure what this is about, since Helen had only mentioned wanting to talk to the two of them specifically.

“I’ve been diagnosed with bulimia, body dysmorphic disorder and mild depression,” she continues, carefully not looking either Bucky or Maria in the eye.

Oh.

“I’m glad you’re getting help,” they say honestly. “That’s really brave of you.”

“Sorry if I forced you into it,” Maria adds. “I was - I was really worried.”

“No, you were right to be,” Helen admits, and Bucky can tell that it’s costing her a lot to say that. “I was being very self-destructive, I just didn’t want to see it. Dr Garner says that I should be fine to go to college, so long as I keep working with him this year and promise to find a new therapist after we leave school.”

Maria nods. “I’m really glad to hear that,” she says. “Well done.”

Bucky smiles at her. “Agreed.” They want to say more, about how impressive it was for Helen to make herself open up to someone, about how they wish they could make themself do the same, but they can’t find the words.

And anyway, Helen looks like there’s still something else she has on her mind. “Bucky?” she says, sounding sort of anxious. “Can I ask you something personal?”

It’s going to be about them being trans, they’re almost certain. ‘Something personal’ might as well be a direct code for that, at this point. And if it was a stranger, they might refuse; but it’s Helen, and they’re pretty sure she’s never been deliberately insensitive in her life.

“Course you can,” they say, hoping that it’s not going to be something about when they’re going to get hormone replacement therapy, or anything along those lines.

“Do you - this is probably way too personal, sorry. But, I was thinking, when Dr Garner was talking about the BDD. Do you have anything similar to that? The dysphoria, I mean. Sorry, you don’t have to answer, obviously.”

“No, it’s fine,” Bucky says, thinking about it seriously, the same way they had when they’d been trying to talk to Sam about it. It’s a good question, and they want to be honest when they answer it. “I actually don’t, not really. I guess I keep waiting for it to hit me. Like when I had to start shaving most days, I didn’t know if that might set it off.” They shrug, not knowing how else to explain. “But, yeah. I’m mostly fine with my body, even if a lot of people wouldn’t agree that it matches up with how my mind is.”

They wonder if that’s still true, really, and why they’re here if it is. 

“That’s good. I was just curious,” Helen says, looking a little unsure. “I know the whole ‘born in the wrong body’ thing is kind of outdated now, but it might still be true for some people, right?”

“Sure, I guess,” Bucky says, not wanting to give away that it’s been a while since they actually did much research into what all the correct ways of referring to things are right now. Since they started dating Sam they’ve been spending less and less time on Tumblr, which is where they usually get most of their news on trans issues from.

“I’ve been doing a lot of reading,” Helen says, sounding kind of shy. “I figured that if I’m going to be a doctor, I should know all about the social and emotional issues, not just how high someone’s hormone dose should be, or something.”

“That’s awesome of you.” Bucky’s genuinely really happy to hear that, and even though Helen hadn’t said that they’d inspired her in any way, they can’t help but wonder if maybe they’d had at least a bit of impact on her decision to research LBGTQ issues. Which is a scary thought, but scary in a good way.

“Okay,” Helen says, twisting her hands together. “What did you need to talk about, Bucky?” It’s clearly a way for her to take the focus off of her, so Bucky isn’t going to try and change the subject back or anything, but they can’t deny that they could have done with at least a few more minutes to prepare themself.

They look over at Maria, who seems just as calm as ever.

“I wanted to ask you if I could try - um.” Fuck. They’d started that sentence off perfectly. 

They look down; maybe no eye contact will help.

“I wanted to try on some of your clothes,” they say way too fast, and they don’t look up even when they hear a small noise from Helen’s direction that they can’t even begin to interpret.

There’s a pause. “Sure,” Maria says, standing up. “Can I assume you mean - I don’t know how to phrase it, sorry. Ah, more feminine clothes than you usually wear?”

Bucky nods, but she’s already opening the door to her closet so she has her back to them. “Um, yeah,” they say, feeling completely thrown by her easy acceptance, and then feeling guilty for being surprised.

“I’m definitely the most similar body type to you out of all the girls,” she says, absentmindedly rifling through a few hangers that Bucky deliberately doesn’t focus too hard on. “But your shoulders and upper arms are most likely a bit bigger.”

Bucky realises that they should probably have spared a moment to wonder if Maria might be offended by their request, since she’d hit the nail on the head - the main reason he’d asked her rather than Helen, Nat or Sharon was because Maria is roughly the same height as them and if anything probably _more_ muscular.

Both are things which they’re aware some girls might feel self-conscious over, and they wish they'd thought this whole request through just a bit more.

Maria doesn’t seem even slightly bothered though, so hopefully that’s one part of this they don’t have to worry about. The list of things making them anxious is still horribly long, of course, but when is it not?

“I just want to try it,” they say instead of properly answering her, feeling like they should explain more but not knowing how. “Experiment a bit, I guess?”

“You don’t need to justify it to us,” Helen says firmly. “We’ll help with whatever we can.”

“Thanks.” Bucky looks at her. Her expression is sort of - neutral but kind, they think, and when she sees them looking she smiles.

“You were great when, um. After the bathroom,” she says, breaking their eye contact as soon as she says the word _bathroom._ “I owe you.”

Bucky frowns. “No you don’t. That’s - we’re friends, you don’t owe me for looking out for you.”

Helen doesn’t look at all annoyed by them contradicting her. “Just like you don’t owe me and Maria anything, you mean?” she says with a quick grin. Damn. Well, Helen’s clever enough to make them walk into a trap easily, and they can’t say they mind this particular one too much.

“Fine,” they say, and they wanted to sound at least a bit grumpy but it just comes out fond. “I guess I can agree to that.”

“Yay,” Helen says with a perfectly straight face. “Now. Makeover time?”

Maria’s been on the other side of the room for the past couple of minutes, close enough to hear Bucky and Helen’s conversation, but not really participating in it. She’s been rifling through her very large closet, and as Helen says the word _makeover_ she looks over at the two of them.

“One sec,” she says. “I haven’t even tried all these on myself. I’m trying to figure out which ones will fit you, Bucky.”

She comes over to the bed and throws a small heap of clothing onto it.

“Here you go,” she says. “If you like anything, you can keep it. My mom thinks that buying me expensive dresses is a good way to express affection.”

That doesn’t sound like something Maria would appreciate in the slightest, which makes Bucky sad. They might expect a distant relative to buy her something she wouldn’t be into, but her _mom?_

They look at the pile for a moment, feeling overwhelmed even though there’s probably only five or six dresses there.

Hell, who are they kidding? They’d feel overwhelmed if it was just the one.

Helen starts sifting through, and pulls out a simple-looking dark green one. It has loose, elbow-length sleeves, which might hide their biceps, and the chest is a kind of shirt-front style which doesn’t look like it would be too baggy.

It’s a good choice.

Of course, they still feel like they want to sprint out of the room.

“How about this one?” Helen says, sounding every bit as casual as if she was holding out a guy’s t-shirt to them. “Me and Maria can go into the hall, or something, if you want to try it on your own.”

Bucky shakes their head. “I wanted a second opinion,” they say, unable to tear their eyes away from the dress. They take it from Helen, wondering how this scrap of silky fabric can possibly manage to feel threatening.

“I’ll put it on in the bathroom,” they say, trying to sound confident. And failing, they’re sure, but they know that neither of the girls will call them out on that. 

Thankfully, Maria has her own bathroom. Her mom and stepdad aren’t even home right now, but Bucky would still feel terrified if they had to walk through the hallway in a dress. Baby steps. 

They close the bathroom door behind them and lean back against it, taking a breath.

Clint wore a skirt to school that one time, they remind themself, as a protest against sexist dress codes - a general protest; their school barely even _has_ a dress code. And no-one had given him much grief for it, at least not as far as Bucky knows. 

They can do this.

They carefully put the dress down on the side of the bath, then methodically strip their clothes off until they’re standing in only their socks and underwear. Then they take off their socks as well, because they’re pretty sure they won’t exactly go with the dress.

Right. 

Bucky looks down at their body. They don’t do it very often, though it isn’t because of any kind of dysphoria, not exactly. It’s just - there isn’t really anything that interesting about it. They’re fairly thin, and not that toned - Sam and Steve have both tried to get them to join in with various forms of exercise, all of which they consistently turn down - and they have probably normal amounts of body hair, which doesn’t bother them that much; though they’d still like to try shaving something other than their face one day.

It’s just - a body.

But now, with the flash of accusing green staring at them from the bathtub - oh, good, they’re personifying clothing now, they think with mild hysteria; maybe they should remember that one for their English final - Bucky can’t help but feel that something about it doesn’t quite measure up.

For fuck’s sake. 

If they keep thinking about this, they’re probably going to manage to _give_ themself some kind of physical dysphoria, and that would just be so fucked up. This is just a test; it doesn’t have to change anything, and it’s not like there’s anything even slightly irreversible about it. Even if their brain refuses to agree.

 _It’s not going to fucking fuse itself to your skin,_ they think angrily to themself, and they pick up the dress - feeling just a little like the hands doing it don’t belong to them, like their skin is somehow rougher than usual as it catches against the thin material - make sure it’s the right way round, and slip it on, wriggling around until it feels like it’s more or less on right.

Then they look down again.

That’s - wow. The contrast between the image of them half-naked and the view now is actually kind of scary. The dress isn’t tight-fitting, so the skirt swings out over both their crotch and the view of their hairy legs, and their chest doesn’t look as flat as usual, and - 

They actually can’t see anything particularly masculine about themself at all from this angle, which is so fucking _weird._

And not necessarily in a good way, though there is a kind of confused excitement building up in them. They can’t figure out if they actually like this way of seeing themself; it’s too new for them to feel anything but a jumble of emotions that they don’t want to sort through just yet. 

There isn’t a full-length mirror in the bathroom, and Bucky decides to go out into the bedroom to look in the one there, instead of just seeing their head and shoulders. 

They grab their discarded clothes, resisting the urge to hold them in front of their chest as a pathetic attempt at a shield, and open the door slowly, feeling almost physically sick at the thought of Maria and Helen waiting for them on the other side. 

But they keep going, walking straight over to stand in front of the mirror before they can lose their nerve, and they look unflinchingly at their reflection.

Oh - oh, Jesus fucking _Christ._

Everything looks sickeningly, unbelievably _wrong._ The dress is stretching over their shoulders in a way that’s obvious now they’re seeing it head-on, and their waist doesn’t curve in where the middle of the dress does, so there’s weird little fabric rolls all over their hips and stomach.

 _Jesus,_ they think again, not even feeling the slightest bit bad for the blasphemy.

“I look ridiculous,” Bucky says blankly.

“No you don’t!”

“They do a bit, Helen,” Maria says, in her usual unflappable way. This is another reason Bucky had wanted to ask Maria for her help, rather than any of the other girls. They can trust her to be honest; but not brutally so, the way Nat might be. 

“You just need a different cut,” Helen insists loyally. “Anyway, who cares if you don’t look exactly how you were hoping to? That doesn’t mean you can’t wear whatever you want.”

“She has a point,” Maria says, tilting her head to one side as she looks at them. “If you feel comfortable, it shouldn’t matter what other people think you look like.”

Bucky tugs at the material covering their chest. It’s all bunched up, and they don’t even have much chest hair but somehow a bit of it is managing to poke out of the space between two buttons. “Yeah, okay. But I feel ridiculous as well.”

They don’t think they’ve ever been less comfortable in their life.

Maria looks at them intently, which is always an unnerving experience. “Bucky. Do you actually want to wear dresses and skirts, or do you just think you _should_ want to wear them?”

They really need to stop hanging out with people who are so good at reading them, Bucky thinks grumpily.

Helen’s looking at them with a considering sort of expression as well now, and the scrutiny is suddenly too much. They pull the dress over their head, feeling bad that they’re risking tearing the probably very expensive material - but not bad enough to keep it on for another second - and quickly pull their jeans and sweater back on, so that they aren’t standing awkwardly in front of Maria and Helen in their underwear.

There’s been enough awkwardness for today, they feel.

Bucky puts the dress back on the bed and sits down on the floor, cross-legged. “Sorry,” they say, feeling beyond frustrated without quite knowing why. 

Which, of course, only increases the sense of frustration.

They try to picture themself in a dress designed just for them, one which takes into account every single line of their body until the fit couldn’t be more perfect.

It wouldn’t really change anything, they realise, and it’s like a missing piece that they hadn’t been aware was absent just fell into place. They don’t particularly want to wear more feminine clothes, and it isn’t because of the attention they’d get, or because of the newness of it all - or at least, it’s not only because of those things.

Mostly, they just don’t want to.

“You’re right,” they continue slowly. “I like my clothes the way they are. It’s just -”

What is it?

They can’t explain what’s going through their head, not without outing Peggy, and even if that wasn’t an issue they don’t think they’d be able to put it into words anyway.

“I’ve just got a few things to work through, I guess,” they finish, feeling inadequate in about a thousand different ways.

Bucky glances up. Helen looks worried; Maria looks unruffled as ever.

“Want to watch a movie or something instead?” Maria offers. 

That sounds great, but they can’t right now. “I’m actually meeting Sam in a bit,” they say in their best attempt at a casual voice. 

Maria and Helen share a look that Bucky has no idea how to interpret.

“Another time, maybe,” is all Maria says.

Helen smiles at them, and they really hope they’re imagining the hint of a teasing expression on her face. “Have fun!”

Is that a normal thing to say to someone heading off to meet a completely platonic, bro-type friend?

“Thanks,” they say, and they don’t mean just for her words. They look at Maria as well, hoping that they’re conveying at least some part of how grateful they are.

Even if the experiment had turned out to be, well, kind of a failure, they have a few more answers about themself now, and just because those answers have come along with even more questions doesn’t mean this whole thing wasn’t worth it.

“Thank you,” they repeat, not knowing what else they can say.

* * *

Bucky’s quiet when they meet Sam, and they hang around a half-frozen Prospect Park mostly in silence for about half an hour, going through the motions of small talk about their holidays and about how shitty it is that almost every teacher had given them homework on the first day back at school.

They walk past the little picnic hut by the lake - empty, unsurprisingly; it’s a cold week-day evening after all - and Bucky takes Sam’s hand without thinking and leads him inside.

They both sit down, wincing at the freezing bench, and Bucky doesn’t let go of Sam’s hand.

“Sorry,” they say, abruptly feeling like they want to cry. “I’m not trying to make this - awkward, or whatever. It’s just.” They don’t know how to finish that sentence, and even if they did they aren’t sure they’d have the energy to get the words out. “It’s been a really long day,” they end up saying, quietly leaning into Sam.

“Sorry to hear that,” Sam says, and Bucky knows that Sam doesn’t have a clue what’s going on with them - hell, they barely know themself - and that he’s probably worried, maybe even kind of annoyed at them for being so cagey, but somehow they feel that he understands everything that they need him to right now.

Bucky doesn’t want to think about this anymore.

“How was your first day back?” they ask Sam, even though half their previous conversation had been about school. “Like, the little things. Did you ever tell Tony that it was you who stole his physics Lego?”

* * *

Bucky is sat on the steps round the side of school. It’s morning break, and Sam’s in some meeting about boring student council stuff, and they don’t really feel much like interacting with anyone other than him right now.

They’ve been back in school for over a week, and Bucky feels like there’s a weird tension between them and Peggy still that they have no idea how to fix, and that’s causing tension between them and Sharon, and them and Steve, and thank _fuck_ Sam’s clearly just decided to ignore it all because Bucky honestly doesn’t think they could take it if Sam was mad at them as well.

“Bucky,” says a very distinctive voice from above them. “Can we talk?”

They look up to see, yep, Peggy standing there, looking like her usual immaculate self. “Um. Sure,” they say, because there isn’t really a polite way to refuse..

“First of all, Steve is probably panicking somewhere because he used neutral pronouns for you in front of me,” she begins, and if it was anyone else saying that then Bucky might start panicking themself.

But it had worked out fine with Clint when something similar had happened, and - if Bucky’s right about her, which still might not be the case - it would be pretty weird if Peggy turned out to be transphobic.

So they just shrug, and wave at the step next to them in invitation. “Not a problem,” they say easily. “I’ll text him so he doesn’t freak out. But, yeah. I’m - um. Y’know, non-binary.”

Peggy sits down next to them, crossing her legs gracefully. “And I’m a trans woman,” she says matter-of-factly. “But you already knew that, didn’t you?”

“I didn’t _know,_ ” Bucky says, with a small part of them marvelling at how casually she’d just said that. “But yeah, I wondered.” Something occurs to them. “Ah, why were you and Steve even talking about me in the first place?”

They don’t love people talking about them behind their back, even though it probably hadn’t been about anything major.

“I was just asking about how you two had become such good friends. He was on a roll with his childhood stories when the whole pronoun thing happened.” 

That makes sense, especially if Steve had been telling a story about the two of them back when Bucky had thought they were - had been? They’re never quite sure of how to define their past gender, really - a boy. “He’ll get over it,” they say, not feeling even slightly angry at Steve. “He used to do it the other way round a lot - call me he instead of they, I mean - and he’d beat himself up every time. So messing up by using the right pronouns is better, I guess.”

“He went absolutely crimson. It was adorable.”

“Irish skin,” Bucky says, with a very clear picture of what Steve must have looked like in his mind.

“He’s an odd duck, isn’t he?” Peggy says. “Sort of like a....like one of those really feisty Chihuahuas, except in the body of a Great Dane.”

Holy shit. Bucky can’t help but laugh at that, even though they still aren’t in the best mood.

“That’s - I don’t know why your brain went there, but that’s the most weirdly accurate description of Steve that I’ve ever heard.”

“A really attractive Great Dane,” Peggy continues in a musing kind of voice. “He’d definitely win gold at Crufts.”

Bucky has no clue what she’s talking about; they guess it’s some weird British thing. There’s something more important they need to ask, anyway.

“Um. Can I ask how old you are?”

She laughs. “You’re both so protective over each other! It’s adorable. I’m twenty-two, and to answer the question you really wanted to ask, no, I would never date anyone still in high school. Even if they were over eighteen.”

“He’s seventeen,” Bucky says anyway, even though she’d been right, that had been exactly what they’d wanted to know.

“He’s head over heels for Sharon, anyway,” she points out. Bucky isn’t going to take that as another example of how good Peggy is at reading people, because Steve’s crush is probably obvious to anyone who sees him even look in Sharon’s direction. Steve is many, many wonderful things, but _subtle_ isn’t one of them.

“Yeah. That would get real awkward.” That’s an understatement, they’re pretty sure. “Is that all you wanted to tell me?”

Peggy looks at them, and they don’t know her all that well yet, but they doubt an expression that serious means anything good.

“Do you know why I dress like this?” she says, and _fuck,_ is she actually fucking psychic or had Maria or Helen said something that might have ratted them out?

Probably they just haven’t been as subtle when interacting with her over the past few days - Peggy’s been in school pretty regularly, and she’s sat in on every one of their History classes - as they’d hoped, Bucky guesses, and hates themself just a little bit more at the thought.

“I don’t want to have this conversation,” they say stubbornly. “I know I’m being a dick, okay.”

“There’s a lot of reasons,” she continues, completely ignoring their reply. “I spent so many years not being able to wear make-up, or grow my hair long. Or feeling like I wasn’t able to, anyway. So it’s fun, experimenting with them.”

“Yeah,” Bucky says quietly, remembering the odd little half-thrill, half-terror that had risen up inside them when Clint had first swept eyeliner onto their lids, and the dizzying feeling when they had finally looked in the mirror and seen themself, recognisable still but somehow _more,_ in an indefinable way.

They decide not to spend any time thinking about their second, much less successful, experiment with how to present themself. Not right now, anyway.

“I like clothes,” Peggy says. “And dresses are fun. I like history, especially the history of fashion. My outfits are sort of like costumes, in a way.”

“Okay?” Bucky really isn’t sure what she’s getting at here. But they admit that they’re honestly interested, now, and they don’t want her to stop talking until she’s fully explained herself.

“But there’s another reason,” she says, looking steadily at them even though they’re still focused intently on the ground. “A few years back, I had an appointment with a new doctor. It was supposed to be a quick interview, to doublecheck that I definitely wanted to start on HRT as soon as possible.”

This is the part of being trans that Bucky probably won’t ever need to know much about, and they feel a little weird listening to this, as though they’re - not quite an imposter, that’s not the right way to put it, but - on the fringes of this particular world, maybe, not quite part of it but not _not_ included either.

“I was in a bit of a lazy mood that day,” Peggy continues. “Revising for A levels was kicking my ass, and we were in the middle of a heatwave - which the UK does not cope well with, by the way. No bloody air-con anywhere. So I showed up to the appointment in just plain old shorts and a t-shirt. And I wasn’t going to style my hair and wear a full face of make-up when I felt like I was about to melt.” 

Bucky swallows. They think they can probably guess something of what’s coming, and hoping they’re wrong won’t change the words Peggy’s about to speak.

“That lazy day almost put my plans for my life on hold indefinitely,” she says. “The doctor took one look at me and decided that clearly I couldn’t be female, since if I really wanted to transition I’d be dressed to the nines every second of every day.”

Oh, God. “I’m so sorry,” Bucky says, feeling tears building up behind their eyes.

She waves her hand. “Cis women can wear baggy sweatpants and not a scrap of make-up, and they might get a few rude comments, but they won’t have their entire identity questioned. They won’t get death threats for trying to trick people, or - well, or death threats just for existing, to be perfectly honest with you.”

Bucky wants to say _I’m sorry_ again, over and over, but they don’t think any words can convey just how they’re feeling, or how much they want Peggy to know those feelings.

They can’t begin to tell her any of it, and they don’t know if she even wants them to try.

She stands up again, and Bucky realises that the bell for classes must be about to ring.

“That’s all,” Peggy says, not looking angry with them in the slightest, which Bucky feels is more than they deserve. “I know I’m conventionally attractive, and that most people read me as female-assigned at birth. And I understand that you’re probably still figuring a lot of things out, and I’m happy to talk more about it if you want.” She hesitates, and an expression crosses her face that Bucky doesn’t know how to read. “But - my life isn’t perfect just because my lipstick is, you know?”

She walks away, her words echoing over and over in Bucky’s ears, and the bell rings just as she turns the corner.

* * *

They’re still sitting there when Sam finds them. Bucky remembers that he has a free period right now, which they don’t - but they really can’t face math class right now, so they don’t move.

“Hey,” Sam says, sitting down next to Bucky. 

Bucky glances around - they wonder if they’ll ever stop feeling the need to do that - and then takes Sam’s hand when they see that the yard is empty. “Hi.”

“Steve wanted me to come find you,” Sam says. “He thinks he accidentally outed you to Peggy?”

“Yeah. But it’s fine.”

Sam sighs, and squeezes their hand a little tighter. “If you say so. Hey, there’s a new sci-fi movie out the day after tomorrow that actually doesn’t star a white guy. Want to go see it?”

Bucky nods, because they haven’t been to the cinema in a while, and because even their dark mood can’t completely suppress the little burst of happiness that flowers inside them when they think about going on a second official date with Sam. “Me and Steve always used to go to the movies, but he talks through them. It’s the most annoying thing ever.”

Sam is silent for a moment. “Can - can you not talk about you and Steve right now?” he says, his voice sounding just a little rougher than usual.

“Sure,” Bucky says, knowing their confusion will be obvious. “Sorry?”

Why would Sam have asked that? He can’t be jealous, surely? That would be ridiculous; Bucky and Steve are more like siblings than anything else.

Sam sighs. “Don’t ask, okay,” he says quietly. “I just wanted to see if you’d be up for the movie.”

“I’d love to,” Bucky says, and they mean it. Part of them wants to hide away from the rest of the world for the next few days, but they know that would be a bad idea. And they can’t imagine being in the state of mind where they’d ever turn down spending time with Sam.

A little group runs past on the other side of the yard, heading for the building - late to class, probably - and Bucky instinctively lets go of Sam’s hand.

“Sorry,” they say yet again - do they know any other words, today? - hating how small and miserable their voice sounds.

“It’s okay,” Sam says instantly, but when Bucky looks at him he looks exhausted - and when he sees them looking he makes a clear effort to look more cheerful, which is about a thousand times worse.

 _My outfits are sort of like costumes,_ Peggy had said, and Bucky thinks that her statement would have rung even more true if she’d replaced the word _costumes_ with _armour._

They both sit in silence, not touching, and Bucky feels like they’re too tired to cry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter summary: Peggy is spending time at the school and Bucky thinks she might be a trans woman which makes them insecure about how masculine their appearance is. Bucky has a lot of internalised stuff going on in their POV here including transmisogyny directed towards Peggy, though they recognise and feel bad for this. They try on a dress of Maria’s (Helen is there for moral support) and end up thinking it looks horrible on them, this involves some internalised transphobia and a lot of thoughts about dysphoria. They meet with Sam after but only briefly. A week later Bucky and Peggy have a conversation where Peggy (who is indeed trans) explains that she sometimes feels people won’t treat her as her gender if she doesn’t dress in a feminine way. Then Sam asks Bucky out on a date to see a movie.
> 
> In CA:tFA, I think an argument can indeed be made that Peggy wears her femininity like armour, in a way. It’s more complex than that I’m sure, and I have meta bookmarked on it that I really need to find again. But anyway, I thought for a long time about how to transplant Peggy into the 21st century, and decided that an accurate way to keep that aspect of her life would be to write her as a trans woman (plus I just loved the idea as soon as it came to me). Cis women (people of all genders, really) are very much affected by forced femininity and images of the ‘ideal woman’ in media etc, but not to nearly the same degree that trans women are. Tbh Peggy with her one-liner "my life isn’t perfect just because my lipstick is" could apply to Peggy both in canon and many AUs, I hope you like how she's written here!
> 
> A note: "Cis women can wear baggy sweatpants and not a scrap of make-up, and they might get a few rude comments, but they won’t have their entire identity questioned." Peggy isn't wrong here exactly, but she's also coming from a place of privilege in certain aspects. A thin white cis woman wearing sweatpants is going to get different reactions to fat women and women of colour, even if they're cis, who wear an identical outfit, for example. 
> 
> This was honestly a really difficult, stressful chapter to write, and I already plotted the next one and it involves lots of Sam angst (some of which was originally in this chapter but then it got super long), I’m very sorry!! I think I will try to make chapter 10 as close to pure fluff as I can manage to make up for it :) suggestions for fluffy moments you would like are welcome!
> 
> Feedback really appreciated as always <3


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam is _trying_ to not hover in the living room so that he can be the one to answer the door instead of his mom, but he’s doing a pretty bad job of it.
> 
> “How about I just wait in the kitchen?” his mom says, in a very dry tone.
> 
> “Sorry,” he mutters, glancing at the door yet again. “I’m just - you can’t blame me for being nervous about this, okay.”
> 
> He winces when he hears the words leave his mouth, knowing how they sound.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One note that I should probably have mentioned earlier: this fic is set in the 2015/2016 school year, not the school year that just begun this month. The sequel will be set in 2016/2017, in everyone's first year of college/whatever else they're doing. There were always going to be 2 fics; I had just imagined them at about 30k each which clearly isn't going to be the case!
> 
> Chapter warnings: discussion of a past death (see end notes for more detail) and for some self-harming behaviour.

* * *

Sam wakes up on the morning of January 10th, and immediately wishes he hadn’t. There’s no slow, hazy crawl into wakefulness today; he’s just asleep one moment and then fully aware of everything around him the next.

Last night had been nice. Sam had suggested a movie date partly so that he wouldn’t have to talk too much, as shitty as that might sound, and it had worked. The movie had been pretty good, and they’d both stuffed themselves on too-expensive popcorn and ice-cream so hadn’t wanted to go out to dinner after. They’d parted ways at the subway station, and Sam had darted in quickly and given Bucky a kiss goodbye, knowing the risk but going for it anyway.

It had been a good night.

But it hadn’t served its purpose, which had been - and Sam does feel bad for it, even though he’s sure Bucky wouldn’t mind - to distract him from the constant assault of memories trying to break down every barrier he’s set up inside his brain over the years.

There’s a soft knock at his door, and he rolls over to face the wall.

“Come in,” he says, voice rough from both sleep and most likely a few tears. He knows who it is, and he knows that she’d leave him alone without hesitation, but - he doesn’t want to be around people right now, that’s true, but maybe just this one person should be the exception.

Thank god the tenth is a Sunday, this year. Small mercies. His mom had called him in sick to school most years on this day, but skipping - even with parental permission - in his senior year probably wouldn’t have been the brightest thing to do.

Not that he gives a fuck about school right now. 

He feels the bed dip slightly as his mom sits down. “Morning, darling,” she says, and - that’s it, the lightest touch that piles on top of everything else to break the wall he’s trying so hard to keep intact.

 _Darling_ is a sacred endearment in the Wilson family. Sam had thought it was his mom’s name when he was younger, because his dad said it to her that often; and even when other people had spoken to her his little-kid brain hadn’t been able to process the difference between _darling_ and _Darlene._ His parents hadn’t stopped laughing for what felt like hours to Sam back when they’d found out he thought that, but they’d hugged him and Sarah the whole time and it hadn’t felt like they were laughing _at_ him, or anything. 

It’s one of his favourite memories still, dimmed by time as it is - his family surrounding him, joyful and full of laughter, and him being the one that caused their happiness.

Of course, that had been before. Before -

Sam starts crying, horrible ugly sobs that feel like they shake his whole body. It’s been a long while since he let his mom see him cry, but she doesn’t react with shock, or worry, or with anything but their shared mourning.

“I’m so sorry, love,” she murmurs, resting her hand on his arm, a grounding presence that he simultaneously wants to shy away from and move closer to.

“Eight years,” Sam says to the wall, or tries to - between his tears and the comforter bunched up around his face, he doesn’t think it comes out sounding even a bit coherent.

His mom will understand, though. She’d have understood even without his attempt at words.

“He’d have been such an annoying teenager,” she says fondly, and she doesn’t sound too far from tears herself.

God, Sam loves her. She knows him, knows that he doesn’t want platitudes right now, doesn’t want to hear _he’s in a better place,_ or _everything happens for a reason,_ because - no, no it doesn’t, that’s just so much fucking bullshit; a ten-year-old kid doesn’t get obliterated in a hit-and-run for any kind of higher purpose, Jesus fucking Christ. 

“He really would,” he says, choked-up and heartsore, picturing it with ease - it’s not the first time, after all, he’s spent many a long night trying to fix an exact image in his mind of what Riley might look like now, and now, and at every moment of the life he’ll never get to live.

Riley had been such a weird mix of bratty kid and cocksure comedian that no-one had ever known whether to be mad at him or to laugh and let him get away with whatever prank he’d just pulled. He was the kind of kid teachers probably swapped stories about in the staffroom - _did you hear what that Riley did today? I’ll give you a hint, it involved glitter glue and Casey’s new braids._

God, he’d have been a hellraiser. But charming with it, too, so that you’d be half in love with him even as you wanted to punch him in his smug little grin. Sam bets he’d have left a trail of half-broken hearts behind him as well, a line of girls - or guys, or both, because exploring his sexuality is just one more bullet point on a list of things Riley will never have the chance to do - who knew in their hearts that they wouldn’t be able to pin him down, but who couldn’t help but want to try anyway.

Sometimes Sam feels like he’s keeping Riley alive, in a way, inside his head. In the dreams and imaginings that haunt him, in the what-ifs and maybes that can never be answered now, can never be anything but possibilities.

So many lives he might have lived. 

“I miss him,” Sam manages to say through the tears that aren’t stopping. He doesn’t need to say the words out loud, of course he doesn’t. Giving voice to them won’t make them any more real, nothing could, but he wants to hear them anyway.

“I know,” is all his mom says, soft and sorrowful.

“It’s so unfair.”

More words that didn’t need to be spoken.

“It is,” she replies. “It is, my darling. The world can be a cruel place.”

For his mom to be saying that, his mom who believes in the goodness in people, and in God, and just _believes_ in general, really - well, it means a lot.

The world can be cruel, Sam knows that. He also knows that his family are determined to do what they can to help make it just a little less so. His mom is a vet; she works mostly with people’s pets, often elderly folks who only have their dog or cat for company these days. His dad’s job as a therapist is beyond important; he specialises in helping veterans adjust to regular life after their time in service, and he’s one of the most highly recommended people in the whole city for it.

And Sarah is in med school, training to heal people in an even more obvious way.

Between the three of them, Sam sometimes wonders if his family are trying to fix the whole world, or at least their little corner of it.

And he already knows he wants to follow in their footsteps, though he has no idea how they’ll react to the exact way he’s planning on helping people.

He wants to know, suddenly, fiercely, in a way he can’t ignore.

“Mom,” he says, wriggling around until he’s sitting up, not caring that his face is tear-stained or that his voice is still hoarse.

It’s just a little cruel, to tell her this today, Sam knows that. Today of all days, she won’t shout at him, or berate him, or try to change his mind. He should wait, really, until they’re back on a more even footing. That would be the kindest thing to do.

But he wants to know.

“Yes? Can I get you something to eat?”

He tries to smile at her. Probably it isn’t very convincing. “No, no. It’s just - I wanted to tell you something.” 

“Anything,” she says, and it sounds like she means it. 

“I know what I want to do,” Sam says, scared but resolute. “As a career, I mean.”

“Alright?”

She’s probably thinking he’s changed track completely, that he’s decided he wants to be an actor or something, and that he’s scared to tell her because she wouldn’t want him to have a job with so much uncertainty.

Sam wishes it was that simple, the reasons why he’s afraid.

“I want to be a therapist,” he says, which he knows isn’t news to his mom. “Specialising in supporting LGBTQ teenagers.” 

That bit - that’s the first time he’s ever said it out loud, to anyone, so that part will definitely not have been expected.

There’s a long silence, loaded with a heaviness that Sam knows he’ll never fully understand. He’s read a hell of a lot more books and articles on the AIDS crisis than he bets most teenagers would ever want to even glance at, but that’s not the same as living through it. Nothing ever can be.

That kind of history, the weight his mom carries with her every day - it’s not something he can comprehend, but he hopes that he and his dad and sister manage to help her bear it, somehow. Some days he thinks that they do, others he’s not so sure. He can only hope.

“You’re a good boy,” his mom says at last, and he can’t figure out how she’s feeling just from those few words. “You’ll help people, I know you will.” She falls quiet again, and Sam holds his breath. “Is it - is it because of Marcus?”

Sam startles, just a little, at that. His mom doesn’t mention his uncle often, and when she does it’s rarely by name.

“Partly,” he says, not wanting to lie now, and then he takes a deep breath. “Mostly it’s because of me.”

The silence is longer, this time.

Sam feels like every cell in his body is somehow on edge. He’s been through about fifty different emotions in the past half hour, or at least that’s what it seems like, and he can’t take this waiting on top of everything else.

“I’m sorry,” he says in a rush, unable to hold it back any longer, feeling tears welling up in his eyes again. 

He doesn’t look at his mom. He can’t.

“Oh, Sammy,” she says, and God, she hasn’t called him that in years. “Darling, I’m not angry. Or upset, or anything you’re thinking. I’m just - well, never mind.”

She’d been going to say she was just afraid, Sam thinks, but he doesn’t voice it for her.

He knows that if he opens his mouth, all that will come out is yet another sob.

“Do you - do you have a boyfriend?” his mom asks hesitantly, and for a moment Sam wants to shake his head.

He doesn’t give into the instinct, though, not when he remembers that there’s no way he can explain to his mom that he doesn’t have a _boyfriend,_ but that most people in the world who saw him and Bucky together would assume that he did.

He shrugs instead, not wanting to lie to her outright.

“Invite him round,” his mom says, in that tone that really doesn’t invite argument - not if you don’t have a death wish, anyway.

“What,” Sam says, too shocked to make it into a proper question.

“Invite him over,” she repeats, as though it’s a perfectly normal thing for her to be saying. “If he’d like to come, anyway.”

“Mom, I -”

He falls silent, because he genuinely doesn’t know what to say to her. He’s played this moment over in his head so many times, imagined so many possible scenarios - including that she would accept him completely, of course - but now that it’s actually happening he can’t take any of it in.

She sighs. “I’d like to meet him. I’m sorry that you thought I wouldn’t. I can understand why you’d think that, though, after - well.”

 _After Marcus,_ Sam finishes in his head, realising that he hasn’t said Riley’s name out loud yet today.

“I’ll ask,” Sam says, already searching through his bedsheets for his phone. He clears his throat, wanting to make sure his words come out coherently. “But can we have breakfast first? Just the two of us?”

“Of course we can,” his mom says, smiling at him. “I’ll go start up some pancakes.” She gets up from his bed and moves over to the door, turning back to him just before she reaches it. “Sam?” she says, and he looks at her. “I’m so proud of you, my darling. Don’t ever think there’s anything you could do that would make me stop loving you.”

She leaves before he can even begin to think of a way to respond to that, and the few tears that manage to escape from his eyes aren’t entirely sad ones. 

He finds his phone, and tries to think of what he’s going to say to Bucky.

God, this has been one hell of a day, and it isn’t even ten o’clock. What else is in store?

* * *

Sam is _trying_ to not hover in the living room so that he can be the one to answer the door instead of his mom, but he’s doing a pretty bad job of it.

“How about I just wait in the kitchen?” his mom says, in a very dry tone.

“Sorry,” he mutters, glancing at the door yet again. “I’m just - you can’t blame me for being nervous about this, okay.”

He winces when he hears the words leave his mouth, knowing how they sound. He hadn’t meant it quite like that; he isn’t mad at his mom for making him think that she would react badly to him being queer, but - well, he’s nervous, is all, and he still thinks that Bucky should come round for the first time on literally any other day of the year.

She looks tired, he realises, tired and more than a little sad, and he immediately feels like he’s the worst son in the world.

“I’m sorry,” he says, before she has a chance to reply. He goes over to her and hugs her. “I’m really sorry. I’m such a mess today.”

“Samuel Wilson,” his mom says sternly, letting him go when - oh shit, Bucky’s here - the buzzer sounds, giving him a little push towards the door. “You have every right to be a mess, and you’re doing just fine. Now, I’m going to get us a head-start on lunch. You bring your boy into the kitchen whenever you’re both ready to, and not a moment before.”

He nods, speechless again, and quickly presses the button to let Bucky up. Then he opens their apartment door and slips out into the hallway, careful not to let the door fully close behind him.

The lift opens, and Bucky steps out, looking about ten times as scared as Sam feels.

“Hey,” they say, and Sam throws his arms around them. “Um.”

Bucky clearly decides not to bother with any more words, because a moment later their arms are wrapped around Sam, accompanied by a crinkling sort of noise.

Sam pulls back, much sooner than he wants to, and looks at Bucky’s right hand to see what had made the sound.

Wow. “You brought my mom flowers?”

Bucky looks embarrassed, but kind of defiant as well. “It’s polite,” they say, holding them out to Sam for inspection.

“My mom’s going to love you,” Sam says in wonder. His head’s still spinning, he doesn’t know why this is the one thing - of all today’s revelations - that he can’t manage to take in, but somehow when he looks at the little bunch of yellow and orange flowers they seem like they’re about as overwhelming as the sun.

“I hope so,” Bucky says, still not looking any less nervous.

“She will,” Sam says firmly, and he takes Bucky’s left hand and leads them through the door.

* * *

It’s actually kind of annoying how easily Bucky and Sam’s mom take to each other. They love swapping stories about Sam, which he could have predicted - except he really couldn’t have, because how could he ever have imagined being in a situation like this?

They all eat lunch together, a simple meal of leftover risotto with a few vegetables thrown in, and then Sam and Bucky wash up while his mom puts her feet up and listens to the kitchen radio.

“Mom?” Sam says after they’re done, hoping that she won’t give him a gut reaction of _no way_ to his question. “Can me and Bucky go in my room for a bit? I want to show - him something.”

He doesn’t look at Bucky when he says _him;_ he’s been trying to avoid pronouns altogether over the entire conversation, which has been a lot more difficult than he would have guessed.

His mom frowns. “What? Of course you can, you have Steve round all the - oh.” She laughs a little to herself, and scrunches up her nose. “I see. Well, yes, you can. I trust you boys.”

Bucky looks overwhelmed at that declaration, which Sam isn’t going to think too hard about.

“Thanks, mom,” Sam says, then tugs Bucky in the direction of his room before his mom can figure out how to say the most embarrassing thing possible.

When they’re in his bedroom, Sam takes a moment to look around, trying to picture how someone new would see it. They’d probably decide he’s a giant nerd after a single glance, he decides, and they wouldn’t exactly be wrong.

Bucky already knew that, though, and Sam knows that they’re a bit of a closet nerd themself - maybe more than a bit; that’s something he really needs to find out at some point - so he isn’t worried.

Sam sits down on the bed, and pats the space next to him. Bucky sits down as well, only a little hesitantly, and turns to face him.

“Sam?” they say, looking serious.

“Yeah?”

“Are you okay?” Bucky pauses for a moment, but then clearly decides to keep going. “You - you look like you’ve been crying.”

Sam resists the urge to go look in a mirror. He probably _does_ still look like he’s been crying; he’d splashed a bit of cold water on his face after breakfast, but he hasn’t taken a shower yet today.

“I haven’t had the best day,” he says, not sure just how much he wants to share.

“I’m sorry,” Bucky says, clearly not knowing exactly how they should be reacting. Which is fair enough; it’s not like Sam’s given them a whole lot to go on.

Yet.

He’s going to do this, isn’t he? Something in him has already decided it; maybe he’s known he would deep down since the moment he agreed to invite Bucky round, today of all days.

Sam moves around on the bed until he can lean over the side without falling off. He reaches underneath, and pulls out an old shoebox. It’s battered as hell, and the cardboard is peeling away in more than a few places, but he knows there isn’t a speck of dust on it. He’d looked through it last night, after all, with his hands shaking the entire time.

He wants to hug it to his chest and never let it go, but he knows he needs to do this at some point.

And now, with the person who he’s starting to accept that he’s honestly in love with, with his mom knowing about their relationship and being okay with it - now seems like a good time to start opening up to people.

So he holds it out to Bucky, who clearly doesn’t know quite what’s going on; but they take it - very gently, which makes a little spark inside Sam’s chest flare into life again - and set it on their lap. They look at Sam before reaching for the lid, and he doesn’t know if they’re asking for permission or just checking in on him, but either way he nods at them.

They open it slowly, as though the worn cardboard is somehow precious, even to them, and look at the contents.

It would seem like junk to most people. Useless odds-and-ends; bits of string, old pressed leaves, broken toy cars and a handful of cheap marbles.

It had been treasure, to Sam and Riley. It still is, though now only to Sam.

The first thing you see when you take off the lid is the picture taped to the inside. Bucky’s staring at it now. It’s a regular photo, from the days when you had to take your film to be developed at a drugstore, and it’s only faded a little. It rarely sees the sun, after all.

Sam can’t see it now, of course, since he’s sitting on the other side of the lid, but he’s had that image stamped into his brain for long, long years.

Two boys, smiling wide as they can at the camera - or at Sam’s mom, at least; he remembers her saying something funny to them just before she pressed the shutter, though the memory of what exactly it had been has faded now. Sam had just lost both his top front teeth, and Riley looks like a mess, with his mop of never-brushed blond hair sticking out in all directions as usual.

But Sam’s funny gappy smile and Riley’s birdnest of a hairdo aren’t what draw attention to them, not really. The only thing that seems to matter when you look at that photo is how overwhelmingly _happy_ both boys are. 

“You were such a cute kid,” Bucky says quietly, with a sad little smile. “And - who are they?”

Sam’s noticed that Bucky’s started defaulting to neutral pronouns whenever they’re talking about someone who they don’t know, which makes sense. He should probably get into the same habit himself, really, though he isn’t going to think too hard about it. Not right now, anyway.

“That’s Riley,” Sam says, and his voice somehow doesn’t break. 

It was one photo among many. Sam’s mom and dad, and Riley’s too, have shoeboxes full of those shiny envelopes you used to get your photos back in, endless scenes of the two of them laughing and playing pranks and inventing their own sport that involved eight tennis balls and Sarah’s old Barbie campervan.

It was one among many. Or - it was supposed to be.

Sam wonders what ten-year-old him would have said if someone had told him that it would be the last photo ever taken of him and Riley. He doubts he would have understood. Death isn’t the kind of thing that can be explained, not really. You have to experience it to know what it’s like, and by then it’s already too late to prepare yourself.

As if you can ever be prepared for something like that.

“He was my best friend,” he continues, watching Bucky’s eyes widen just a little. “He -”

 _He died in a car accident,_ say it, say it, it’s not even that many words for fuck’s sake.

Sam feels like he’s about to cry again, and wants to punch himself in the face. He settles for digging the nails of his right hand into his left wrist as hard as he can, since that’s a bit more unobtrusive.

He doesn’t look at Bucky. He can’t. 

So when he feels arms wrap around him, as carefully as though he might be broken with one too-harsh touch, he startles and digs one nail so hard into his skin that it feels like it almost draws blood. 

He lets out a quiet hiss, and Bucky looks down.

“Oh, Sam,” they say, soft and heartbroken, and they gently take Sam’s arm and look at it, maybe making sure that nothing is too badly damaged.

Sam knows it won’t be. It’s an easy way to distract himself - or punish himself, sometimes, in the real dark moments. Marks like that fade; they don’t leave tell-tale little lines, especially not on his skin.

Bucky moves slowly, until they’re sitting with their back leaning against the wall. They’re still touching Sam; but they’re not holding him anymore, and he misses it already.

 _Don’t get dependent,_ he tells himself fiercely. _You don’t know how long this will last._

You don’t know how long anything will last, in this world. Anything, or anyone.

“He was my best friend,” Sam says, with the last word turning into a sob, and he curls back into Bucky’s embrace.

They sit there in silence for what feels like a very long time. Bucky doesn’t talk, and Sam can’t.

After who-knows-how-many minutes have passed, Sam picks up the picture again, and hands it back to Bucky. Then he moves until they’re sat side by side, leaning against the wall, connected but no longer intertwined.

“I didn’t know,” Bucky says, sounding even more torn-up than Sam would have expected them to.

Why the fuck should they have known? Sam hadn’t wanted to share it, it’s as simple as that, and he still isn’t sure he wants to.

“What?” Sam says, knowing that it comes out confrontational but really not in the mood to care. “You and Steve have the monopoly on weird co-dependent best friends, or something?”

That was probably going a bit too far. Hopefully Bucky won’t judge him, or at least not right now.

Bucky holds the picture further away from their face, which annoys Sam until he realises how fast they’re blinking, and wonders if they were making sure that no teardrops fell onto the image.

“No, I - I’m sorry,” Bucky says, eyes still fixed on the frozen little Sam-and-Riley, who grin up at them from the photo as though they know that nothing in the world could ever hurt them.

“He died,” Sam says finally, and Bucky flinches even though they must have known that was coming; Sam wouldn’t have had this kind of breakdown over a childhood friend moving to another state, or a fight between them that ended the friendship or something. “In a car accident.”

It both says what it needs to and doesn’t. 

Bucky closes his eyes, and one tear escapes them. On instinct, Sam reaches out and brushes it away. 

“He was the most annoying little kid,” Sam begins, reaching back through memories that he replays more often than he likes to think about. “We met in kindergarten, when he knocked down this tower that I’d spent ages on.”

Bucky reaches out, blindly, for Sam’s hand, and they cling onto each other as Sam keeps talking, letting the years and the stories wash over them both.

* * *

Sam spends his entire Sunday after Bucky heads home doing absolutely fuck-all, which doesn’t actually make him feel any better. He wonders if he’ll ever stop reacting like this to the same day every year; if one year he’ll wake up on the tenth and just feel a moment of passing sadness.

He really fucking doubts it. And he wouldn’t want to, anyway; he knows that Riley would hate the thought of him mourning for the rest of his life, and almost every other day of the year he tries to live up to the whole _move on with your life_ thing, but he thinks that Riley would understand him taking just that one day to do nothing but grieve.

He’ll never know for sure, of course, but it makes him feel better to believe it.

Come Monday, he’s almost glad to be headed to school, just for something new to think about. And he can see Bucky again, and maybe this time neither of them will be crying.

Not the highest bar for a relationship, he’ll admit, but these are some pretty special circumstances.

Just as he walks through the school gates, his phone buzzes. It’s a text from Bucky.

**Sorry got a real bad migraine not coming in today :( hope you’re doing ok call me whenever you want to xx**

Sam honestly has to resist the temptation to just turn around and walk right back out again. His mom has another day off today, though, and imagining the look on her face if he came back to the apartment without even trying to get through the day makes him keep going.

He’s early, because he’d wanted to try and hang out with Bucky before first bell, and he looks around the entrance hall to see if anyone he knows is waiting there.

There’s a lot of people he knows, but he doesn’t see anyone that isn’t going to make him want to hit anything, so he decides he might as well just head straight for his locker.

Then he sees someone waving at him from the corner of his eye, and with relief he sees that it’s Rhodey.

He goes straight over. “Hey,” he says, hoping that he looks like it’s just any other day. Which it is, really, it’s the eleventh now, but he’s still feeling sort of - flayed open, which sounds horribly dramatic, but that doesn’t make it any less accurate. It wouldn’t take much to make him cry again, not right now.

Rhodey nods at him. “What’s up?”

“Not much,” Sam says lightly, not feeling bad for a second about the lie. “You?”

“Mom’s on my case again about enlisting.”

Sam wonders what his own mom would say if instead of telling her he wanted to be a therapist, he’d told her he wanted to join the forces. He’s pretty sure he doesn’t have an imagination powerful enough to conjure up her reaction.

“That sucks,” he says, and Rhodey looks at him like he knows exactly what Sam’s really thinking.

“I know why she’s worried, obviously,” Rhodey says. “But it’s just making the whole thing even more stressful than it needs to be.”

“Hi,” comes a voice from behind Rhodey, and they both turn to see Helen.

“Hi there,” Rhodey says, and Sam gives her a little wave.

“Ugh,” Helen says, looking mildly annoyed, which for her probably means she’s really pissed off. “Some freshman just asked me what the best karate movie of all time is. I don’t even know what the difference between karate and ju-jitsu is!”

Christ, it’s 2016. What the actual hell is wrong with people?

“Asshole,” Sam says. “I hate it when people do shit like that. Like when people assume I can rap.”

“You _can_ rap,” Rhodey points out, because he’s a nitpicking asshole.

“Okay, fine,” Sam says, flipping Rhodey off. “Doesn’t mean they should assume that. And I’m shite at basketball.”

Rhodey laughs. “You really are. I don’t know how you don’t get the concept of keep bouncing the ball. It’s not that hard.”

“You’re not that hard,” Sam retorts nonsensically, because apparently he’s literally twelve years old now.

“How would you know?”

Sam tries not to smile, but it’s a lost cause, especially when he catches Helen’s eye and sees her expression.

Fuck, he’s glad he didn’t stay at home in bed today. He loves his friends so much, and he couldn’t care less about how sappy that sounds.

“Christ, I’m going to miss you,” he says to Rhodey, and then regrets it immediately. Not because it’s not true - he isn’t sure he even knows how true it is, not yet - but because he doesn’t want to bring down the mood. 

And because he doesn’t want to go through any kind of emotional conversation right now, not when he’s still feeling so on edge.

“We all will,” Helen says. “We’ll have to do group skype sessions - there’s probably too many of us, I’ll figure that out. We’re not going to lose each other, okay?”

She sounds certain, and as though she’s going to cling onto that certainty with everything in her. Sam can sympathise.

“Course we won’t,” Rhodey says easily. “No way can I find a bunch of weirdos like you again.”

“Who are you calling a weirdo?” Nat says as she walks up.

Sam smiles at her. “Basically all of us.”

She shrugs. “Can’t deny that.”

“How are you doing, Nat?” Helen asks, sounding just a little hesitant. 

Sam doesn’t quite know how all the group dynamics work when it comes to the four girls. Helen and Maria are clearly best friends, as are Nat and Sharon, and they often hang out in other pairings - Maria and Sharon do a ton of volunteering stuff together, for example.

But he isn’t sure how well, say, Helen and Nat get on when it’s just the two of them. Being in such a big friendship group is so fucking weird, he thinks to himself for the thousandth time.

Not that weird is a bad thing, of course. If their group has an unofficial motto, that would probably be it.

“Not so bad,” Nat says lightly, which could mean anything. “Wilson, I’ve been trying to cast the American Gods show in my head. I need your input.”

“Oh my god,” Sam says, welcoming the new distraction. “How can you do that to me? How the fuck do you even cast that show? It’s going to be amazing, I can feel it.”

Rhodey sighs loudly, though Sam’s pretty sure it’s fake. “Care to elaborate?” he says.

“The Neil Gaiman book,” Sam says. “You _have_ to read it. I’ll lend it you. And they’re making a show, and Gaiman’s one hundred percent promised no whitewashing, and fuck me it’s going to be so good.”

Rhodey looks thoughtful. “Cool,” he says, which in Sam’s opinion is a much too casual reaction, but whatever. This is why he has Nat; they can inflict all their fandom ramblings on each other, and only include the rest of the group when they honestly want to join in.

“It sounds good,” Helen says. “I don’t think I have time to read a whole book right now, though. Unless it’s on idiopathic pulmonary fibrosis, because I just found out that’s what my main interviewer for Columbia did her doctoral research on.”

Sam does a double-take when he hears that. “Helen! Congrats, holy shit. You didn’t tell us you got an interview!”

Rhodey puts his hand up for a high five, which Helen returns before ducking her head, looking embarrassed but happy.

“That’s awesome,” Rhodey says. “You’ll get in, I know you will.”

“Don’t jinx anything,” Helen says, sounding more than a little anxious.

Nat hums to herself. “Nope, he’s right,” she says solemnly. “One of my many superpowers is seeing the future. You’re going to be the best doctor in New York City.”

Helen blushes, and Sam decides to change the subject before she starts looking like she wants to sink into the ground under the weight of them complimenting her.

“Okay, real talk,” he says, already knowing what he’s going to ask them. “If you all could actually have a superpower, what would it be?”

“Invisibility,” Helen says immediately, then frowns. “No, wait. That was just my gut reaction.” Sam feels kind of sad at that thought, though he isn’t sure why. “Um. I’d like to be able to heal people, I guess,” she says, ducking her head down again as though she knows it’s an obvious one for her to go for.

“Mind-reading,” says Nat - predictably, Sam can’t help but think, which is rare for her. 

“Why?” Rhodey asks. “That could get really invasive. And what if you couldn’t shut it off?”

Nat looks thoughtful. “True. Fine, then I’m going to go with super-strength. And I’d enter all those macho weight-lifting contests and win then all. Wearing bright pink.”

“Nice,” Rhodey says. “Is it cliche that I want to say flying?”

“I’m pretty sure that you all went with the most cliche options possible,” Sam points out. “So I wouldn’t worry about that.”

Rhodey raises one eyebrow. “Oh yeah? What would your power be, Captain Original?”

Sam thinks. He hadn’t actually prepared an answer, though of course he’s thought about the question before. Mostly while crying over the blatant analogy for a coming out scene in X-Men 2, which he isn’t about to admit.

Flying would be amazing, sure, but he’d kind of have to be invisible as well, wouldn’t he? Else people would probably try to shoot him out of the sky or something. And the question had been for one superpower, not two.

He doesn’t actually want to be able to read anyone’s mind; he agrees with Rhodey that it’s pretty creepy. Not that he’s blaming Nat for thinking of it; he knows that as good as she is at figuring out people’s motivations, actually interacting with them can be difficult for her, and he’s guessing she’d just wanted to make that part of her life a little easier.

“Don’t think too hard, man,” Rhodey says, laughing at him. “Hey, Helen, how long have you got to prepare for the interview?”

Sam lets the flow of conversation wash over him, still stuck on the same train of thought.

He thinks about all the X-Men characters. Thinking about Mystique and her shape-shifting makes him remember his half-asleep conversation with Bucky at Tony’s party, where they’d talked about Tonks and her Metamorphmagus ability, and he wonders if Bucky would empathise with Mystique as well.

That power might come in handy for him too, he guesses; he could duck into an alley and walk out as a white guy in a suit the next time some cop gives him the side-eye.

He wouldn’t really want to do that, though. That line of Mystique’s, when she’s asked why she defaults to her blue skin and red hair, when she’s asked why she doesn’t hide all the time, and she says _because we shouldn’t have to_ \- it’s been one of Sam’s all-time favourite lines since he saw that movie.

Maybe he should have figured out he was queer just a little earlier, he thinks to himself ruefully.

He can’t think of a good use for telekinesis, not really, and he’s pretty sure he’d just end up using it to become the laziest possible version of himself, floating over every book or snack he wanted instead of getting out of bed.

A healing factor?

No, not that; he winces as soon as he thinks of it, because the one person in the world he would have wanted to give that particular power to is gone.

“Superspeed,” he says, before he’s even thought through why.

Then he closes his eyes, hoping with everything he has in him that there’s some kind of normal expression on his face.

If he’d had superspeed, he could have made it to Riley before the car did, could have pushed him out of the way, been a real-life superhero and saved the one person outside of his family that had loved him unconditionally, and been loved the same way in return.

And then he wouldn’t have had to watch - to watch as - 

He’s going to cry.

He is absolutely _not_ going to cry, not in front of his new friends, who’ve never even heard the name _Riley_ leave Sam’s lips, who don’t know much about his childhood, not really - not the real things, the things that have shaped him and - for better or worse - made him who he is today.

“I’m going to the bathroom,” he says in a tightly controlled voice, and leaves, already knowing he won’t be back.

He can almost physically feel three worried stares boring into his back, but he keeps walking.

And walking.

Fuck school, he thinks with an unfamiliar anger rising up inside him. 

**Calling in sick,** he texts to Bucky. **Is your mom home? Can I come round?**

He’s about to go down the subway steps when Bucky replies, and he waits at the top of them so he doesn’t lose signal.

**she went to the library to study since i’m home. yeah course you can, we’re babysitting the twins though.**

Sam thinks about that. He’s only ever had an older sibling, and he doesn’t have all that much experience with kids, but he has to learn sometime. Might as well make a start now. If nothing else, it will hopefully turn out to be a good distraction.

 **On my way,** he sends, already feeling less like he wants to punch the nearest wall.

He honestly doesn’t know what he’d do without Bucky in his life, not anymore.

He prays he’ll never have to find out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: the past death is of a child, who was killed in a car accident. The self-harm is someone digging their nails into their skin deliberately.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Bucky:** you ok?
> 
> He hesitates before typing, but - this is Facebook, not really the place for emotional revelations; and besides, Bucky had said they needed a favour.
> 
>  **Steve:** Yeah all good :) what did you want to ask me?
> 
> There’s a long pause, which Steve avoids filling by scrolling down a bit more of his homepage. One of the artists he follows has posted some amazing new edit, and he wishes for a brief moment that he could afford a decent laptop and Photoshop.
> 
>  **Bucky:** fucking hell i did not want to do this over facebook

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry. I promised fluff and didn't manage to deliver. Which is why I'm uploading 2 chapters today, although the fluff still doesn't appear until near the end of Chapter 11. I might have to take a little break from writing after this because I honestly do want the fic to wind up happy, and in theory there should be only a few chapters left now so I really have to start moving in that direction soon. 
> 
> As always, thank you for reading (over 1k hits now, which is incredible). My dream would be to get this to 100 kudos, my most popular fics are usually about 10% kudos/hits percentages so it would be beyond lovely if this one was as well. (I don't mind at all if it isn't though, the response has already been amazing so thank you <3)
> 
> No chapter-specific warnings.

* * *

“No,” Steve says blankly, looking at his mom’s calendar. Which is showing a new picture. A very nice picture, sure, with the Brooklyn skyline lit up by a gorgeous sunset, but a new picture means a new _month_ and how on earth can it be February already?

“Afraid so,” his mom says, with unmistakable laughter in her voice.

“No,” Steve repeats. “I - I still keep writing 2015 on all my homework! It can’t be February already.”

“Time goes faster when you get older, hey?”

Honestly. “I’m seventeen, mom, I’m not retired.” He sits down at the kitchen table, still unable to process that a whole month of the new year has gone by and he has basically nothing to show for it.

His mom starts making two cups of tea; she may not be English, but she’s still a firm believer in the old saying that tea cures all ills.

“Why do they have to put a heart on for Valentine’s Day?” Steve asks in what’s probably a way too whiny voice. “It’s like they’re mocking all us single people.”

“About that,” his mom says in a tone he can’t read, and Steve swings round to look at her.

“Mom?”

She’s busy pouring milk, but she looks up at him as soon as she’s finished.

“I may have been asked out for Valentine’s Day,” she says, looking - cautiously happy, Steve thinks might be a good way to describe it. “If you’re alright with that, of course.”

Oh. “Wow,” he says, then realises that there’s a very offensive way that could be interpreted. “I’m not surprised, sorry, I’m just - Mom, that’s great!”

“Thanks,” she says dryly, sitting down at the table with both cups of tea, pushing one in his direction.

He takes it, but doesn't drink yet. “No, really. I’m happy for you. Where are you going?”

“Oh, Queens. Some new Italian place that just opened in Astoria. It’s supposed to be very nice. And, well, we both have a lot of friends in Brooklyn. So we wanted to be out of the way, I suppose.”

“Do I know - them?”

She definitely knows that he’d been about to say _him_ rather than _them,_ but hopefully it won’t bother her too much.

“I don’t want to jinx anything,” she says, and Steve thinks she’s looking just a little nervous. “So I won’t answer that.” Which is fair enough, really, it’s none of Steve’s business just because he’s curious. “But I’m glad you don’t mind,” she continues. “I know how much you miss your dad, still.”

“Yeah,” Steve says quietly, wrapping both his hands around the mug of warm tea. “Of course I miss him. But I want you to be happy, and so would he.”

“I am happy,” she says, raising one eyebrow at him. “I could have done without the whole cancer thing, admittedly. But I’m happy.”

 _The whole cancer thing._ She constantly downplays her months - years, really - of pain and suffering, and while it’s completely her right to do that, since it had been her that had gone through them, Steve isn’t sure how he feels about it.

But that’s not what he wants to talk about right now.

“I know you don’t need to be in a relationship to be happy,” he says, because he does know that. “It’s just - I don’t like the thought of you being on your own, when I’m off at college next year.”

“Well, neither do I, really.” She pauses to take a sip of tea. “But we both know that you’ll be round way more than a teenager in his first year of college should be.”

Steve can’t find a convincing way to deny that, so he doesn’t bother trying. “I might not even get in,” he says, even though he’s pretty sure he will.

His mom looks sad, for a moment. “You’ll get in. I just wish -”

“You wish I was studying art instead of Business, I know, I know,” he says, really not wanting to have this conversation again.

He and his mom have argued before over the years, of course they have, but never in quite the same way as when Steve had announced what college major he was planning to apply for. They’d both said some hurtful things that he really doesn’t want to replay in his mind, and he definitely doesn’t want to try to defend his choice to his mom yet again, especially since he can’t even tell her the major reason he wants to study Business and Management. 

He thinks she might know it anyway, which is somehow even worse than if he’d told her.

“I won’t push,” his mom says, and he hates that he’s made that tired note creep into her voice yet again. “But I want you to at least consider taking art classes, alright?”

“Sure,” he says, glad to have found a potential compromise. He doesn’t know if he’ll actually want to - maybe having just a couple of hours time for his art a week would actually hurt more than never doing it again, he’s not sure, but it’s an easy promise to make.

It had been his mom who had convinced him to keep going with art in high school, back when he’d been determined to drop history and music and everything that didn’t seem practical. He’s glad that he’d let her persuade him, now, and he knows that she’s probably right this time as well.

It’s just - she had come so close to not getting the right treatment, all because they didn’t have the right kind of health insurance. And that thought terrifies Steve more than he wants to admit even to himself

Sure, there’s Obamacare now, which is great. But even that isn’t foolproof, and it’s still a fact that poor people in this country are at staggeringly higher risks of dying that anyone well-off. 

Steve is never, ever going to let anything happen to his mom that could have been prevented by something as simple as them having a few more dollars in their bank account.

So. Business Studies. 

“What are you painting at the moment?” his mom asks, probably trying to change the subject to something a bit less tense.

“Ugh,” Steve says, happy to go along with the new topic. “Mr Sitwell has this thing about leaves, which is fine, but he keeps being way too excited about them. I’m trying to do a cityscape with leaves included, just to keep him happy.”

“And what reasoning are you going to give for that?” His mom, just like Steve himself, both hates and is amused by the way they’re never allowed to just paint something in class because they want to. They have to come up with some kind of deeper meaning, or moral message, or statement on society, before it will get approved to be a part of their portfolio.

Like Nat’s spider-fingers as a profound exploration of decay and decrepitude, or whatever on earth she’d said; he’s kind of blocked it out of his memory now.

“I’ve thought of two options,” he says. “Depending on what mood I’m in. It could either be a protest against the metropolitan invasion of the beautiful American landscape, or something like that. Or it could be some kind of praise about how New York manages to have some many green spaces in the middle of one of the biggest cities in the world.”

“I like the second one,” his mom says predictably. Steve will never get over how much she loves New York, despite being from a tiny town in Ireland that no-one’s ever heard of. Or, well, maybe it’s because of that? He isn’t going to spoil the now-stable mood by asking.

“Yeah, but I feel like Sitwell’s on a bit of a saving the environment thing lately,” Steve says. “I should probably go with the one that he’ll like better.”

“That completely defeats the point of art,” his mom says, scowling at her cup. 

Steve laughs quietly. “You’re not wrong. But, school, you know.”

She sighs. “I know. Anyway, you’ll do great things whatever you choose.” They definitely aren’t talking about the meaning behind his leafy New York painting anymore. 

“Thanks, mom,” he says, accepting her words for the peace offering he knows they are.

* * *

Time keeps going by way too quickly, in Steve’s personal opinion. The next few days at school fly past, even though he doesn’t feel like he’s done anything particularly significant with them. A new painting, a jog with Sam that’s cut short when someone - Steve’s pretty sure he knows who; he just doesn’t know how to ask - texts Sam, a couple of pop quizzes that he thinks he did okay on.

He should probably be doing homework right now, if he’s being honest, but it’s Saturday so it’s not like it’s urgent, and he feels like making himself mildly sad by seeing what everyone else is up to on Facebook instead. 

His laptop beeps and he sees that he’s got a new message. When he sees it’s from Bucky he feels like his heart actually skips a beat, which would be ridiculous even if he liked Bucky in a romantic way. Since he doesn’t, he’s pretty sure it just makes him pathetic.

It’s just - it’s been a while since Bucky was the first one to message him, and he knows that makes him sound like a lovesick thirteen-year-old, but he ignores that thought as best he can.

 **Bucky:** hey i need to ask you a huge favour 

**Steve:** Of course, what is it?

He should probably have waited to say yes until _after_ he knows what Bucky wants, but there isn’t really a whole lot he wouldn’t do for them.

 **Bucky:** first of all, are you planning on asking anyone (Sharon) out for next weekend?

Steve frowns. That’s really specific.

 **Steve:** No? Why would I be?

 **Bucky:** i swear you live under a rock it’s valentine’s on friday

Oh. That would explain it. Steve feels that panicked feeling - how is time moving this quickly, seriously; he swears he and his mom were only talking about her date yesterday - rising up inside him yet again, but he ignores it.

And then he thinks about Bucky’s question seriously. Does he want to ask Sharon out?

First of all, there’s the fact that she might say no, which would make things pretty awkward between them, and probably for the group in general. She’d let him down easy, he’s sure, and he’d try to not be too disappointed, but things like that always cause at least a bit of tension in friendships.

And then, of course - she might say yes.

Steve realises that the thought of that scares him even more than the thought of her saying no.

Which probably isn’t a good sign.

 **Steve:** I’m not asking her out

He can think this all through later. But he’s starting to wonder if maybe he’s in love with the idea of Sharon rather than her herself, if maybe he’s been feeling like he _should_ have a crush on her still - because he definitely did once, that part he isn’t doubting - and that his feelings for her are being sustained by that rather than by any actual, well, feelings.

 **Bucky:** you ok?

He hesitates before typing, but - this is Facebook, not really the place for emotional revelations; and besides, Bucky had said they needed a favour.

 **Steve:** Yeah all good :) what did you want to ask me?

There’s a long pause, which Steve avoids filling by scrolling down a bit more of his homepage. One of the artists he follows has posted some amazing new edit, and he wishes for a brief moment that he could afford a decent laptop and Photoshop.

 **Bucky:** fucking hell i did not want to do this over facebook

Now Steve’s kind of worried.

 **Bucky:** if you’re free i need you to babysit the kids because i have a date that night and i really don’t want to reschedule

Oh. Wow. That - he hadn’t been expecting that, not that he’d been expecting anything, really, and for a moment he isn’t sure what to say.

Other than the obvious, he guesses.

 **Steve:** That’s great! Sure, no problem :)

He pauses for a second, but then starts typing again.

 **Steve:** Can I ask who you’re going out with?

He has a pretty good idea who it is. He’d be surprised if he turns out to be wrong, actually. But he wants to know if Bucky will tell him. 

It isn’t a test, or anything; he understands why this might be something Bucky wants to keep to themself. It isn’t about trust, not really, or about how strong their friendship is; Steve tries to not doubt that anymore. It’s just - he wants to know.

 **Bucky:** i feel like you already know

So maybe Steve wasn’t being as subtle as he’d hoped. Well, the two of them have always known when the other one was keeping something from them, even if Steve’s never been quite as good as Bucky at figuring out what exactly that something is.

 **Steve:** Sam?

The little dots that mean Bucky’s typing appear, then disappear, then reappear again. Steve holds his breath.

 **Bucky:** yeah

Well, that was anticlimactic. Steve wonders what the deleted words that Bucky had written were.

 **Steve:** That’s great :) I’m really happy for you guys

Shit. He starts typing as fast as he can.

 **Steve:** meant tat in gendernetural way sorry

 **Bucky:** yeah no worries. and thanks. i know this must be kind of weird for you

Yeah. Just a little.

 **Steve:** No it’s great, I’m happy for you

He already said that. He hates Facebook, how it keeps a record of all your conversations even though you type so fast your brain can’t even keep up with the words sometimes. You can’t even delete the messages, the way you can with emails; they’re just _there_ for you to scroll back through and cringe over. 

He should probably think of something new to say.

 **Steve:** Is this your first date?

He’s sure that Bucky and Sam have liked each other for a while, and he’s sure they’ve been hanging out more - texts to Bucky that have gone unanswered and Sam skipping their usual running sessions pretty much confirm that - but he doesn’t know when either of them might have actually confessed anything.

A first date on Valentine’s Day seems like a bit too much pressure, though, so he’s thinking that maybe it had been a few weeks ago or something.

 **Bucky:** um no. we went to CI right before xmas break, that was our first

Well. That was almost two months ago.

 **Bucky:** we’re going to tell everyone just not yet. it’s complicated with our families and stuff

Steve swallows down his hurt. He gets that, he does, but - is he just a part of _everyone?_

Bucky is his first friend, and for a long time his only one. Sam is the first friend Steve made after his lungs started working properly and he was able to actually exercise and put on weight, and Sam was the first person who really seemed to look past his new body to the person underneath. They both mean the world to Steve. 

And the thought that maybe that level of feeling isn’t reciprocated, or that it was but isn’t anymore - well, it’s far from the first time he’s had that thought, and he’s learned to live with it just fine.

Besides. This isn’t about him. 

**Steve:** Really it’s fine. I won’t say anything, there’s no rush. 

He desperately wants to change the subject, but he doesn’t want to make it obvious; and he really doesn’t want Bucky to think that he’s uncomfortable with this whole thing. Which he kind of is, but not for any reasons that have to do with Bucky, or Sam, or the two of them together. No, the problem is just with him, which means he’s going to have to figure out how to get over it on his own.

 **Steve:** So is your mom at work on Friday then?

 **Bucky:** actually she has a date! they’re going to some new italian place in astoria though and me and Sam have a booking at a thai restaurant near his 

Steve has to reread that three times before it fully sinks in. That - no. It can’t be - okay, he can’t actually process this right now, and _fuck_ Bucky’s still typing. How is he supposed to respond to that?

 **Bucky:** can you imagine if we all ran into each other. that would be the most awkward thing literally ever

Bucky has absolutely no idea just how awkward it would be. Unless - Steve could be wrong, couldn’t he? His mom and Bucky’s mom could just both be going to the same restaurant, on the same night, for separate dates.

That seems unlikely. 

Steve has no idea what he’s supposed to do here. He can’t tell Bucky, obviously. But - how can he act like everything’s normal right now?

Everything _is_ normal, he tells himself sternly, wondering if he’d be feeling this level of panic if it wasn’t for the fact that his mom and Bucky’s are both women. 

At least they’re not talking face to face. Steve knows he’s a bad actor, and that combined with how good Bucky is at reading him would mean he’d have no hope whatsoever of replying casually. At least when he’s typing he can control how he comes across.

He’s pretty sure he can, anyway.

 **Bucky:** Steve?

Steve takes a long breath in, and lets it out.

 **Steve:** Sorry just went to the bathroom. Hah yeah that would be super awkward.

Just like he is.

 **Steve:** Anyway yeah I can definitely babysit, no prob.

He presses enter, then immediately second-guesses it. ‘No prob?’ That really does not sound like a thing he would say. Hopefully Bucky won’t pick up on it.

 **Bucky:** awesome thanks so much you’re the best!!

Oh. He hadn’t actually been expecting that Bucky wouldn’t notice anything weird. He guesses that’s a good thing. He’s got away with it. 

He should probably be feeling more relieved than he is.

 **Steve:** You’re welcome :)

The little ‘message read’ tick appears, and Steve waits for a couple minutes. But Bucky doesn’t start typing again, and Steve guesses that the conversation is over.

He logs out of Facebook, both to stop himself from sending any more messages, and so that Bucky might think that he’s left his house to go do something fun and interesting.

They’ll probably just assume he’s gone to sleep early, in reality.

Or they won’t even think about it at all, or notice. That last one is the most likely.

Steve thinks about texting Sam, to - what? Congratulate him? He should probably wait until Sam brings it up to do that, he realises when he thinks about it some more.

He feels sort of empty, now that he isn’t talking to anyone, but he doesn’t have the energy to start a new conversation now.

He puts his laptop away carefully - there’s no way they can afford a new one, and studying for finals would be such a pain without it - and curls up in bed. He might as well get some sleep.

Try to, anyway.

* * *

Steve’s mom wakes him up early the next morning, with a hand on his shoulder and a cup of tea already on the bedside table.

“Morning, love,” she says, and Steve is still half-asleep but he thinks she sounds a little worried.

“Morning,” he says, trying hard to sound as normal as possible.

Of course, the only person in the world that can read him better than Bucky can is his mom, so he doesn’t know why he’s even bothering.

“Do you want to come to Mass with me?” she asks, and he can’t tell at all what she’s thinking when she looks at him.

“Sure,” he says automatically. He doesn’t change his mind even when he’s fully taken in her words, though; he doesn’t go to Mass every week - or even every month, really, these days - but he still likes a lot of things about it.

He likes the sense of being part of something larger than himself, of being just another person in a crowd, both unremarkable yet significant at the same time. 

And the church his mom goes to is Catholic, of course, but it’s about as progressive as Catholic churches can get, so he doesn’t feel guilty about going and supporting Bucky - and Sam now as well, he guesses - as an ally at the same time. 

He hasn’t forgotten Bucky’s big reveal about their moms’ date - the reveal they still don’t even know about - but he still doesn’t feel like he’s quite processed it. Definitely not enough for him to have any kind of coherent conversation with his mom, anyway.

“I’m just going to have a shower,” he says to buy himself some time. 

His mom smiles at him. “I’ll get some breakfast ready.”

She leaves, and Steve glances at his laptop before deciding that no, he’s not even going to check whether anyone’s messaged him. He’s just going to shower, and go to Mass, and get home and do his assignments, which he’s fully aware makes him sound like the worst goody-two-shoes stereotype ever.

* * *

“Are you sure you’re okay?” his mom asks over breakfast, and _oh_ Steve hates lying to her.

“I’m babysitting for Bucky on Valentine’s,” he says instead of what he really wants to say. Maybe she’ll think he’s sulking because Bucky’s dating someone and he’s still single, which isn’t one hundred percent untrue anyway.

“Oh,” his mom says, and a small line of tension appears between her eyes. 

Steve instantly feels horrible. He hadn’t meant to make her feel paranoid, or upset, or whatever she’s feeling right now. He shouldn’t have brought that up at all. Why can’t he ever _think_ before he talks?

“I’m sorry,” he says, and now she looks confused, so he kind of has to keep going, right? “I’m pretty sure I know who your date is with.”

He stares down at his plate, not wanting to see her reaction to that.

“Does Bucky know?”

He shakes his head. “No. Th - he just mentioned what restaurant his mom was going to on Friday, and, well. Maybe it’s just a coincidence.”

He highly doubts that.

“That would be some coincidence,” his mom says, echoing exactly what he’s thinking. “I’m not sure what to say? I don’t mind you knowing, not at all. But it’s a little awkward, since Winnie hasn’t spoken to Bucky about any of this yet.”

“Yeah,” Steve says, hating himself. Even though he doesn’t know what else he was supposed to do. “Awkward. But, um. I won’t say anything. I promise.”

“I didn’t think you would, love,” his mom says, gentle as always. 

“Bucky wouldn’t mind,” Steve finds himself saying, then promptly regrets opening his mouth. What if - what if his mom reads more into it than those words, what if -

“I’m sure he wouldn’t. But this is all very new, you know. Winnie wants to do this on her own terms.” There’s a few seconds of silence, which Steve uses to try and eat a bite of his toast. He has to chew for what feels like an absurd number of times before he can manage to swallow. 

“Steve?” his mom says, sounding cautious.

“Yeah?”

He holds his breath for a moment.

“You sounded a bit odd, when you said that Bucky wouldn’t mind. Is he - well. It’s really none of my business. Ignore that.”

Steve’s already fucked this up so much, he can’t do much more harm now, can he? 

Oh, he knows that isn’t true. He does. But - he needs to share some part of this burden, which he shouldn’t be thinking of as a burden anyway, should he, he can’t keep all these half-truths locked away inside him.

“Bucky’s date is with a guy,” he says, quiet and miserable, feeling like he’s betraying so many people right now.

Silence. Steve tries to remember how long it's been since his last asthma attack.

“So let me get this straight,” his mom says at last, then pauses when Steve lets out a slightly-panicked laugh. Or a noise that might be a laugh in a parallel universe, at least. “Alright, well, not so straight. I’m going on a date with Winnie, which Bucky has no idea about, and Bucky is going on a date with some mysterious boy, and Winnie doesn’t know about that?”

“Pretty much,” Steve says helplessly, still feeling terrible about outing Bucky, then remembers about the whole non-binary thing. “Except it’s more complicated than that.”

His mom sighs, though she still doesn’t seem particularly upset by any of this. “Of course it is. I’m sorry, sweetie. Here you are, keeping all these secrets for people.”

“I don’t mind,” Steve says, wondering if that’s actually the truth. It sort of is and sort of isn’t, he decides; as with everything in his life right now, it’s complicated.

“We should head out soon, if we’re still going,” his mom says, sounding perfectly normal somehow.

Steve puts down his toast, barely half-eaten. “Yeah,” he says. “I’ll just go get ready.”

* * *

The sermon in Mass this week is about love, about accepting it in all forms and giving it in return, and Steve doesn’t glance at his mom - they’re in church, after all, and her head is bowed and her eyes are closed anyway - but he feels her next to him, a silent, reassuring presence that somehow makes him feel like maybe he hasn’t messed up quite as badly as he’d thought.

Afterwards, when they’ve shaken the priest’s hand and got through the usual ritual of _so wonderful to see you again, Steven, we hope you join us next week,_ they leave the building and his mom is instantly swept up in her little group of church-friends.

That’s what Steve’s called them ever since he was little, and the name still applies now. They never meet up anywhere other than here, they never even arrange to go out for a coffee or something after Mass; they just talk amongst themselves for a half-hour or so after the service ends each week and then part to go their separate ways.

Steve doesn’t even know if that’s odd or not, because he’s just so used to it that he can’t really figure out how it would look from an outsider’s point of view.

“Mom,” he says quietly, before she can get completely immersed in the conversation. “I’m just going back inside for a minute, okay?”

She looks at him and nods, then smiles. He turns away, moving around the people still leaving, making his way back into the church and kneeling down on a pew in the back corner. 

He hasn’t been to confession in a long time, and he doesn’t want to now - he’s spoken other people’s truths out loud enough for one day, he thinks - but he wants to apologise, and he can’t, and maybe this is the next best thing.

 _I’m sorry,_ he thinks, clasping his hands together in a way that’s as familiar to him as breathing. _I didn’t know what to do. I still don’t. I just - I want to be a good friend, and I don’t want them to leave me behind, and -_

That might be enough, for now. His heart is beating faster, and he doesn’t feel exactly like he’s going to cry. But how he’s feeling isn’t too different from that either, in a way he doesn’t want to examine too closely.

He stands, muscles tensing for a moment, feeling that old-familiar-new feeling of surprise all over again when he doesn’t get light-headed from the sudden change in position.

He has so much going for him, he knows that. He should try to focus on that, rather than on the things he wants to change.

Easier thought than done, maybe, but hopefully not impossible.

Steve goes out of the church, alone this time, and sees his mom waiting. He smiles at her, his heart feeling just a little lighter than when he went inside.

No. Not impossible, he thinks, and walks towards her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter explains why the 'surprise pairings' tag was added, hope you liked.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Becca,” Bucky says, trying to sound as serious as they can. “You remember Clint, right?”
> 
> “Nail friend,” Becca says immediately, dangling her head upside down from her very uncomfortable-looking position on the couch.
> 
> “Yeah.” Apparently Clint’s been upgraded - or downgraded, Bucky has no clue how their little sister’s mind works - from ‘hair friend,’ for some reason. “He’s coming round, but he’s coming to help me get ready this time, not you. Is that okay?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Longest chapter so far.
> 
> Chapter warnings: discussions of physical abuse.

* * *

Their school doesn’t bother to put up many decorations for Valentine’s Day, which Bucky is very glad about. They’re anxious enough about tonight as it is, and they really don’t need a shower of pink hearts reminding them of it everywhere they go.

Of course, just because no-one’s made much of an effort with the decor doesn’t mean they don’t have their minds on the holiday.

“So,” Sharon says, before she’s even sat down at their usual lunch table. “Who here has a date for tonight?”

Nat, of all people, puts her hand, which Bucky feels bad about being shocked by.

“Really?” Helen says, then winces - probably because she’s just realised that her surprised reaction isn’t very flattering to Nat, even though Bucky’s sure she hadn’t meant it that way.

“Really,” Nat says in a deadpan voice. “I’m asexual, not aromantic, remember?”

Bucky looks around the table to make sure that they’re not the only one startled by Nat’s announcement. As far as they can tell, the girls seem to not be shocked in the least, whereas the guys - and them, of course - are all staring at Nat with various degrees of confusion on their faces.

“It means she doesn’t experience sexual attraction,” Helen says calmly. “It’s much more common than people think.”

“And I will stab anyone that makes a rude comment with this spork,” Sharon says - Bucky had never imagined that those words could sound that level of threatening until now.

“Aw,” Nat says, looking completely calm, though of course Bucky has no idea if that’s an act or not. “My knight with shining cutlery.”

“Is your date with Sharon?” Steve asks, then promptly goes bright red. “Sorry! Don’t answer that, it’s none of my business.”

“It really isn’t,” Sharon says, and Bucky’s pretty sure that Steve defies every law of biology by turning even more crimson.

They wish they were sat next to him today, so that they could reassure him with a quick touch, or something. They know that he hadn’t meant to be pushy, or overly nosy; he just doesn’t always think his words all the way through.

Maybe there’s some other way they can help. “I have a date as well,” they say, ignoring the way their heartbeat speeds up as soon as they open their mouth.

A few people around the table exchange silent glances, which Bucky has no idea how to react to.

“That’s great!” Helen says, in a very unconvincing way.

What the hell? They haven’t even said who they’re going out with yet, how can anyone already be reacting badly? Bucky’s date could be with a girl for all they know.

Unless - unless they don’t think someone like them should be dating at all? Bucky can feel a sharp sort of panic rise up inside them at that thought, and even though they’re sure it isn’t true they can’t help but feel a desperate need to know for sure.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Sharon says, waving her spork around. “Can we please stop pretending that we don’t know?”

What.

“Um, what?” Sam says, looking alarmed - but not very, which is something. Bucky will take any kind of reassurance they can get right now.

This conversation is rapidly spiralling away from where they’d wanted it to go. Steve owes them a hell of a lot after this. Or maybe it can cancel out Bucky owing him for babysitting tonight.

“Sam, Bucky,” Rhodey says solemnly, resting his chin on his hands like he’s trying to look all wise and knowing. “You two are really, really bad at hiding things. Sorry to break it to you.”

“I figured it out a few weeks ago, and I think I was one of the last,” Maria says, looking apologetic.

So - everyone knows? Bucky can’t take any of this in.

“Excuse me,” Tony says, finally looking up from his phone, where he’s probably been designing another robot or something. “Did you just say that Barnes and Wilson are together?”

Alright, not everyone.

“It’s at least a bit your fault, Tony,” Sam points out, not sounding at all upset by this new revelation. “After your party - actually, no, never mind.”

Bucky glares at Sam. “That makes it sound like we slept together,” they say, clenching their teeth together after they stop talking.

“We kind of did,” Sam says, very unhelpfully.

“In a _literal_ way, sure. We didn’t - ugh.”

This is terrible.

“I knew you two would be disgustingly cute,” Nat says proudly, stealing some of Sharon’s pasta salad.

Wait. “Knew as in, you knew before we got together?”

“Oops,” Nat says through a large bite of pasta. She swallows her food, taking her time about it. “Were you trying to be all undercover?”

Bucky looks at Sam, who has a small smile on his face. They could play this one of two ways. Either they could be pissed off at everyone for knowing about them without telling them they knew, or they could - well, they could just be glad that their friends already know about their relationship, and that they clearly don’t care even a bit.

“Maria, switch seats with me,” Bucky says, already standing up and picking up their lunch tray. “I want to sit next to my boyfriend.”

They take the seat next to Sam, glad that Maria hadn’t complained about moving, and they try to ignore the chorus of ‘awws’ that go round the table. The one ‘what the actual fuck’ from Tony is less easy to ignore, but they manage it just fine.

“I guess we wouldn’t make very good spies,” they say to Sam, nudging him with their elbow. 

Sam reaches down and squeezes their thigh under the table, which is more than a little distracting. “Damn. There goes my career goals.”

“Guess you’ll just have to be my kept man,” Bucky teases him, unable to believe how daring they’re being. 

“This is the worst,” Tony proclaims loudly, then makes a very high-pitched squeaking noise that Bucky is going to tease him about later. They look over at him just in time to see Sharon moving her hand - with the spork still in it - back onto the table. She has a very satisfied expression on her face, and Bucky grins quickly at her before turning back to Sam.

Things haven’t been perfect over the last month between them; there’s been a few minor arguments and some occasional moments of tension that they honestly doesn’t know the source of, but in general Bucky’s never been happier in their life, or at least not since they were tiny and barely even knew what the word anxiety meant.

Actually, they do know the reason for at least one small bit of tension; their conversation about coming out to their friends - God, that Coney Island date feels like it had been just last week; how has two months gone by since then? - had been hovering over them a little; they’d both still wanted to do it but hadn’t quite been able to work up the nerve.

And now they don’t have to.

Which is great, it is, and Bucky is honestly happy that they don’t have to hide in front of their friends anymore - or, well, it turns out they never _did_ have to, because apparently they’re really fucking obvious, which they’re going to have to think more about later, but -

But. 

They’re feeling overly conscious that there were three big coming out moments in their and Sam’s future since the day they started dating. Their friends, Sam’s family, and Bucky’s mom. Well, and Becca, they guess, but they aren’t all that worried about her - kids are way more accepting than people give them credit for, and Bucky can’t imagine her caring one way or another about what gender their partner happens to be.

They don’t actually think their mom would mind, either. She’s been an activist since her college days, and she’s got a few friends who Bucky knows are queer. So, yeah, they doubt she would be bothered by them dating Sam. There’s no reason Bucky couldn’t bring him home after school one day, all _hi mom, this is my boyfriend,_

It’s just - it still feels like lying, somehow. Or not lying, exactly - it’s just, they want to come out to their mom as trans before telling her about Sam, only they can’t figure out why, and they really don’t feel like they’re ready to do that yet.

They’re out to their friends, and Sam’s out to his mom - and his dad and sister now, as well, he hadn’t seen any reason to hide it from them once his mom knew, and it had turned out that both of them had suspected already anyway - so isn’t it about time Bucky stepped up to the plate?

Sam’s hand is still on their leg, a gentle, grounding pressure, and Bucky places their hand over his. The conversation’s turned away from their relationship - thankfully - to gossip about which teachers might secretly be dating.

“I wonder if the headmaster is married or anything?” Maria says, and Bucky instinctively frowns. They really don’t like the headmaster here; they get a weird vibe from him which they can’t define, and they kind of hope he doesn’t have a partner or anything like that. They honestly can’t imagine anyone who would would to be with him, as mean as that sounds.

“Ew,” Sharon says in disgust. “Why are we talking about this again? I vote we go back to mocking Sam and Bucky.”

“Well, I vote we stop talking about relationships altogether,” Rhodey says firmly. “Before us singles get all insecure.”

That gets the laugh that Rhodey was hopefully intending; the idea of him being insecure about anything is a bit absurd.

But then, people might feel the same way about them, or Sam, Bucky thinks a second later. You can’t judge a book and all that.

Sam turns his hand over so that his fingers link in-between Bucky’s. Bucky glances at him, but he’s paying attention to Rhodey, so maybe the gesture had just been an absentminded one. Which is even nicer, really, they think - maybe the two are them are finally comfortable enough together to stop second-guessing everything physical that happens between them.

Well, not _everything._ There’s a lot of things they still haven’t even talked about yet; in some ways, their relationship is about on the level Bucky would have predicted if they were thirteen: kisses and hand-holding and hugs are as far as they’ve gone so far, and neither of them have pushed for more.

Bucky isn’t really sure how they feel about having sex with Sam; they want to, but they also don’t feel like they need to any time soon. They can live without it just fine, and there’s no way they’re going to make Sam feel pressured into doing anything he might not be comfortable with.

That’s the thing they really need to talk about. Bucky kind of gets the sense that Sam is scared to have sex, or something, and they really don’t want to make him feel bad about that. But at the same time, it’s making them more than a little worried, and they know they should probably try to bring up the topic at some point. Hopefully in a way that magically doesn’t make anyone feel uncomfortable

So many serious conversations they need to have. Why can’t life be easy?

The bell rings, and Bucky looks down at the half-portion of pasta they still haven’t eaten.

It wouldn’t be life then, they guess, which seems like a much too profound thought to be having in the school canteen.

“You were busy being all brooding and mysterious,” Sam says, untangling their hands and laughing a little at whatever expression Bucky’s got on. “Didn’t want to interrupt.”

“I wasn’t _brooding,”_ Bucky says, knowing full well that they kind of had been.

Sam winks at them. “Whatever you say. Hey, you’re okay with them all knowing, right?”

Bucky sighs, following Sam to drop off their lunch trays. “I’m still weirded out that they all knew already,” they admit. “But yeah, I’m good.”

“Me too,” Sam says, smiling at them. “Okay. See you tonight, I guess.”

They both have different classes this afternoon, and Sam has track practice straight after school, so unless they run into each other in the corridor then Sam’s right; Bucky won’t see him until they’re at the restaurant this evening.

“Looking forward to it,” Bucky says, wishing they could kiss Sam goodbye. But just because their friends know doesn’t mean they want the whole school to be gossiping about them.

Sam gives them a quick hug, maybe thinking the exact same thing, and then heads to his locker without looking back.

Bucky decides not to think about tonight for the rest of the afternoon. They’re excited, of course they are, but they’re more than a little anxious as well. 

**still on for this afternoon?** they text to Clint.

**of course!! but can we meet straight after school? got a date tonight :D**

Bucky raises their eyebrows when they read that, especially coming so soon after Nat announced she’s going out with someone tonight. They can’t help but wonder. But it’s not really their business, and they’re just glad that Clint’s agreed to help them out at all.

They start walking to their locker, texting Clint at the same time. **early is good for me too, my mom’s going straight from work to her date anyway so don’t have to worry about her.**

 **K cool see you later!** Clint replies, and Bucky pockets their phone before they crash into one of the other students walking and texting in the hallway.

They don’t have to worry about their mom, that’s true.

But Steve will be coming round at six to take over with looking after the girls, and that - Bucky hasn’t quite figured out how they feel about that yet.

It doesn’t matter. They can cross that bridge when they come to it.

In about four hours.

Fuck.

* * *

“Becca,” Bucky says, trying to sound as serious as they can. “You remember Clint, right?”

“Nail friend,” Becca says immediately, dangling her head upside down from her very uncomfortable-looking position on the couch. 

“Yeah.” Apparently Clint’s been upgraded - or downgraded, Bucky has no clue how their little sister’s mind works - from ‘hair friend,’ for some reason. “He’s coming round, but he’s coming to help me get ready this time, not you. Is that okay?”

Becca attempts to do a backwards roll off the couch and onto the floor; Bucky’s hands were already outstretched to catch her, so thankfully she doesn’t bang her head on anything. She loves the idea of being a gymnast, but doesn’t want to go to any classes or attempt to learn a single technique or safety tactic. Bucky’s almost certain that they’re going to start finding grey hairs on their head soon if she doesn’t switch to a new hobby in the next few days.

“Why?” is all Becca says, now with every bit of her attention focused on them.

“I’m meeting a friend tonight and I want to look nice,” Bucky says, hoping that will be enough of an explanation. It’s true that they don’t think Becca would find it weird if they told her they were going on a date with a guy - they aren’t even sure she’d fully understand what that means, anyway - but she has absolutely no concept of how to keep something secret, and she would definitely tell their mom as soon as she saw her.

Even if she _did_ know how to keep a secret, there’s no way they’d ask her to. She’s just a kid, and she should have at least a few more years of believing that there’s nothing anyone could ever want to hide about themself.

“You never look nice,” Becca says solemnly, and Bucky feels a small twinge of hurt inside them, even though they know she hadn’t meant that in a mean way.

“You think?”

She nods, very emphatically. “Your clothes are boring and my friend Gracie says you look scary.”

What the fuck.

“I’m not scary,” Bucky says automatically. But then they glance down at themself, at today’s all-black ensemble, topped off with their favourite combat boots, and - well, yeah, they can kind of see how an eight-year-old girl might not exactly see them as approachable.

They usually like that thought, that people might be intimidated by them, but right now they just feel sad. 

“Duh,” is Becca’s only response. “You’re my brother!”

Bucky closes their eyes for a moment. “Yeah,” they say, opening them again and smiling at her. “I’m your big brother. And you know what that means?”

Becca cocks her head to one side. “What?”

“It means I get to decide what we have for dinner tonight,” they say, trying to keep themself from laughing at the outraged expression on her face.

“Pasta!” she says, diving back onto the couch headfirst. “Pasta pasta pasta.”

“You’re going to turn into a piece of pasta one of these days,” Bucky says, giving into their laughter and ignoring how much they sound like their mom. “Anyway, Steve’s the one cooking tonight, remember? I bet he’ll make you pasta if you ask nicely.”

Becca pokes her head out from behind the cushion she was attempting to hide her face in. “Is Steve still sad?” she asks, which stops all Bucky’s other thoughts in their tracks.

“Steve isn’t sad,” they say, already wondering if that’s true.

“He was sad when he came round here the last time.”

Was he?

Bucky thinks about it, and is startled to find that they can’t remember the last time Steve came round. He used to practically live here, and even when they’d hit high school he was still welcome whenever he felt like it. Bucky went round to his place a lot too, of course, but with the girls still so young it made more sense for Steve - and sometimes Sarah, as well, though they haven’t seen her in a while - to come round here and help out.

“I’m sure he’ll be happy when he sees you,” they say, just so that she has some kind of an answer. It’s probably true, anyway; Becca, Alice, and Evelyn are basically Steve’s honorary siblings at this point.

Which makes it even worse that Bucky hasn’t invited Steve round for - at least two weeks, they think, and maybe even longer. And now the only reason they asked him to come over was so he could babysit. 

Shit.

Bucky feels like the worst friend in the world. They’ve been so focused on not screwing up their still-new relationship with Sam that they’ve been ignoring the one friend who’s been by their side through everything. 

“I’m sorry,” they say out loud, to no-one - Becca’s already distracted herself with a broken yoyo that she unearthed from under a cushion, and Steve, the person Bucky really wants to say that to, isn’t here yet.

The buzzer sounds, and for a moment Bucky wants to jump up, thinking that Steve _is_ here, but then they glance at the clock and realise that it isn’t even five yet. 

Oh, of course. Clint.

They let him up, suddenly feeling much less enthusiastic about their plans for the evening.

Bucky waits by the door and opens it as soon as they hear footsteps coming up the stairs. They still have no idea why Clint doesn’t like taking the lift, but whatever.

“Shi - oot,” they say as soon as they see Clint, glancing back to check that Becca hasn’t followed them into the hallway. “I meant shoot. Are you okay?”

Clint narrows his eyes at Bucky, then pulls out a little pocket mirror and glances in it. “Aw,” he says, examining his very smudged make-up. He’s wearing concealer, or foundation or something, Bucky has no idea, and they’re sure that it had been perfectly applied whenever Clint was last under a roof. But it’s raining pretty heavily now and - well, and visible through the traces of make-up is unmistakably a fading black eye.

“Don’t want to talk about it,” Clint says, shoving the mirror back into his pocket and brushing past Bucky to get into the apartment. “I’m going to fix my face, then we’ll do yours, then we’ll both have excellent and horribly cheesy date nights, savvy?”

“Um, savvy?” Bucky asks, because they don’t know how to say any of the other words that are on the tip of ther tongue. Words like _who_ and _why_ and _do you need help?_

“Talk like a pirate day,” Clint says absently, propping his little mirror up on a bookshelf and pulling out a bag full of make-up from his backpack. “Or, well, that’s September, technically, but me and Nat decided to celebrate random holidays that aren’t Valentines.”

What the fuck?

Bucky decides to just focus on the only part of that sentence that they feel like they fully understand. “Your date is with Nat?” They had wondered, but they hadn’t wanted to be nosy. 

“Oh good, she’s going to murder me on our first date,” Clint says, quickly blending two different creams around his eye in what looks like a very practiced motion. Bucky swallows. “How romantic. Don’t tell her I told you, okay? We’re being all covert.”

Nat and Clint would be the weirdest couple, Bucky’s pretty sure, but they don’t mean that in a bad way.

“You’re doing a better job of it than me and Sam did.” 

They - they should ask, right? They wouldn’t be much of a friend if they didn’t. Or is it the other way around; would a good friend respect Clint’s wishes and let him keep his privacy? Bucky bites down hard on their lip, hard, trying not to look like they’re panicking over this.

“Do you have any more princess stories?” a little voice suddenly pipes up from under the coffee table - which is not a large space; Bucky doesn’t even know how Becca had managed to fit under there. 

Clint looks even more startled than Bucky feels. They try to push back the first thought that comes to their mind, which is _PTSD makes people extra jumpy sometimes, right?_

Shit, what if she’d heard their comment about them and Sam? She wouldn’t have understood, though, would she? Bucky tries to remember their exact words, hoping that their expression doesn’t look too far from normal.

“Hey, Becca,” Clint says, sounding every bit as casual as usual. He keeps on doing his make-up. Bucky already can’t make out a trace of the bruise anymore, even though they know exactly what to look for. “I most certainly do. But me and Bucky are a bit busy right now, with boring grown-up stuff. How about you play in your room for a bit, and then before I go I’ll tell you a story?”

Becca looks like she’s giving that choice as much weight as Bucky would expect from someone making a literal life-or-death decision. God, sometimes they miss how simple life had been when they were a kid. “I guess,” she says finally. “I can show Ally and Evie all my dolls. But when I’m done you have to be ready!”

Clint laughs. “We’ll try, I promise.”

She scampers off into the room she shares with the twins. Bucky has a monitor they carry around with them, so they hear the quiet little burbles of Al and Evie transform into giggles as Becca climbs into their playpen with them.

Clint glances at them. “I’m guessing you don’t want her to see you with eyeliner on?” 

“Not really,” Bucky says, feeling like shit. “Um, Steve should be here in less than half an hour, he’s always early. Maybe if you keep Becca entertained while I wait outside, and then he can come take over?”

“That works,” Clint says easily, as though this level of subterfuge is a completely normal way for someone to be preparing for a date with their boyfriend. “You do realise that means Steve’s going to see you with it on though, right?”

Bucky had realised that, and they’d thought they had talked themself into being okay with it, but hearing it spoken out loud by someone else makes them unsure all over again. “It’s fine,” they say, because - well, it sort of has to be fine; they don’t really have a whole lot of options.

They could just not wear eyeliner, of course. Or try to put it on themself in the restaurant bathroom, or something.

Clint looks at them like he knows exactly what they’re thinking. “Come on,” he says, giving Bucky a little push towards their room. “Go get changed - unless you’re wearing that, please tell me you’re not wearing that - and then we’ll get started.”

Bucky glances down at the jeans they’d changed into as soon as they’d got back from school. They’re more holes than denim at this point, and they roll their eyes. “I’m not wearing these,” they say. “Give me some credit.”

Clint laughs, and starts pulling a few more things out of his make-up bag. Bucky goes into their bedroom and looks at the outfit they’d laid out on their bed earlier, already questioning literally everything about it.

It’s not even feminine, or anything; there’s no reason for them to feel nervous. The black jeans are from a couple years ago, which means they’re tighter than anything they’d wear these days, and the green shirt is kind of a silky material, but it’s still from the men’s department. Bucky assumes, anyway; it had been a Christmas present from their grandma, and they highly doubt she’s someone who would encourage what she would think of as cross-dressing.

They strip and get changed quickly, not wanting to talk themself out of anything. Then they pull out their hair tie and brush their hair quickly, putting the tie on their bedside table instead of on their wrist, so that they won’t be tempted to put their hair into a ponytail the second they start feeling insecure about it. 

There isn’t actually a mirror in their room, so they duck into the bathroom quickly - listening outside the girls’ door on the way; Becca is telling a very detailed story about the magic powers of blue shoes, or something, Bucky doesn’t bother to try and follow along - and grab the little one from there.

“Nice,” Clint says approvingly, as soon as Bucky steps back into the living room. “How do you feel about a tiny bit of eyeshadow as well?”

“Whatever,” Bucky says, putting the mirror down and sitting on the sofa. “You’re the expert.”

Clint sits on the coffee table, which puts him on a level just above Bucky. “We’ve got time to re-do it if you don’t like it,” he says, taking out what Bucky thinks is the same eyeliner as last time. “Hey, do you want to give it a try?”

Bucky thinks about that. “My hands are kind of shaky,” they say, holding one out as proof.

Clint doesn’t look phased by that in the slightest. “No worries,” he says, moving closer with the eyeliner. “Maybe next time. Hold still, okay?”

Bucky does, closing their eyes and opening them on demand, noticing a brush with a sort of shimmery dark green powder on at one point but deciding not to ask. This should be more awkward than it is, they feel; Clint’s face is literally inches away from theirs, but somehow it’s almost relaxing.

Then they accidentally focus on the covered-up bruise - or where it would be visible if Clint’s make-up skills weren’t quite so good - and any sense of relaxation vanishes immediately.

Clint sighs, and puts down the brush he was using. “I’m done. Just ask,” he says, in an already-resigned voice - though resigned to what, exactly, Bucky doesn’t know.

“Sorry,” is all they say. “I’m just -”

Worried? Scared?

“It wasn’t my dad,” Clint says, packing his make-up away and not meeting Bucky’s eye. “If that’s what you were thinking.”

He clearly knows full well that yes, Bucky had been thinking exactly that, and they aren’t about to try and deny it.

“Sorry,” they say again.

“It was Barney.” 

The words are so quiet Bucky almost doesn’t make them out. It takes them a second to process what Clint had said, and then when they do they have to take another few moments to just breathe, and think.

Is that - it isn’t better, is it, that it had been Clint’s older brother rather than his dad? Bucky has no idea; they feel so fucking out of their depth right now.

“Fuck,” they say, which is completely unhelpful. “I - Clint, you know you can stay here, any time.”

Clint’s already shaking his head. “He’s gone. For now. He probably doesn’t even remember, he was so fucking drunk.” He doesn’t look as upset as - as what? As Bucky thinks he should? That’s such a shitty thought to have, and they try to ignore it.

Except - they can’t ignore it completely, can they, because what if that means -

“Has he done this before?”

“Nope,” Clint says immediately, then lets out a long breath. “Not exactly.”

“Clint,” Bucky says, helpless and so fucking scared that they don’t know how to even form a coherent thought, let alone a full sentence out loud.

Clint stands up. Bucky stays seated, not trusting their legs.

“He knocked me into a wall once, and another time he threw a book at me, which missed by a mile,” Clint says in an even tone. “He was drunk every time, and he fucking left again anyway, so this isn’t relevant.”

“What if he comes back?”

“Oh, he will,” Clint says, and it doesn’t even sound bitter. “But I’ll be gone in a few months, and him and my dad can keep each other company after that.” Those last few words, they had definitely sounded more than a little bitter. Bucky stays silent, trying to avoid saying the wrong thing but feeling like not saying anything is somehow wrong as well.

“Bucky,” Clint says, nudging their leg with his foot. “Please. Come on. This is supposed to be a good night, remember?”

Valentine’s Day. Right. God, Bucky’s never felt in less of a romantic mood in their life.

But they look up at Clint, who’s helped them out without asking for a single thing in return, and they nod. 

“You have to promise me, though,” they say, saying the words as soon as they come to mind. “You have to tell me if it happens again. Even if he misses, even if you don’t think it’s anything much. Please?”

Clint looks down at the floor. “Alright,” he says after a moment of thought. “I guess that’s fair. And can you promise not to be a fucking worrywart?”

“Probably not,” Bucky says, rueful and still more than a little doubtful that they’ve done the right thing.

Clint reaches out a hand and pulls them up from the couch. “Fair enough,” he says, smiling what looks like a real smile. “Now, I have a very excellent story about a princess with bright red hair that I think Becca will want to hear. You can hover awkwardly in the hall and listen, if you want?”

“Bright red hair? I wonder who that could possibly be based on,” Bucky says dryly, trying to act as normal as Clint is behaving, and they’re rewarded by Clint’s smile turning brighter. “No, I’ll wait here and let Steve in.”

Clint gives them a quick thumbs up and heads towards the girls’ room, already looking like nothing in the world could possibly be wrong.

“Thanks,” he says suddenly, right before he goes through the door, not looking back.

Bucky doesn’t say _you’re welcome,_ and it isn’t only because Clint’s out of earshot now.

They really don’t think they deserve gratitude. Not for this.

 _Once upon a time,_ they hear through the baby monitor, tinny but still audible, and they smile a little as they listen to the beginning of Clint’s latest feminist epic.

Steve knocks quietly just as the red-headed princess is tricking the bad guy into telling her where he keeps his crossbow - archery again, of course; Bucky hadn’t expected anything else. Steve’s had a key to both the building and the apartment for years, and there was a time that he would just have let himself into both.

At least he hadn’t pressed the buzzer downstairs. That’s something. Maybe.

Bucky opens the door, realising too late that they haven’t even looked in the mirror yet. There’s a weird moment where half of their brain is expecting to see Sam standing on the other side, like last time, and they feel a moment of dissonance when Steve is there instead, but it passes in an instant.

“Wow, Buck,” Steve says, blinking at them in - surprise, Bucky thinks, but there’s something else in his expression as well. “You look - you look beautiful.” 

He ducks his head as soon as he’s said it, clearly unsure of how his words will be taken. Bucky looks at him, properly looks, at his hunched-over shoulders, his hands in his pockets, head down, every scrap of his body language screaming that he’s trying to make himself look smaller.

The worst part - or, one of them, at least - is that it’s working. Steve is close to six feet tall, which Bucky still finds hard to remember sometimes, and all his hours of working out and track practices have more than paid off in terms of muscle growth. It should be literally impossible for him to look small. And yet - there he is.

“Thanks,” Bucky says, feeling a wave of self-loathing creep over them.

“I’ll just go say hi to the girls,” Steve says, moving as though he’s going to step inside the apartment.

“Wait.”

Bucky has no idea why they’d said that, but Steve obeys as if it’s instinct to him, stopping still without even a questioning look.

“I’m sorry,” Bucky says quickly, not one-hundred percent sure of what they’re apologising for but feeling an overpowering need to anyway.

“What for?” 

Steve sounds - confused, maybe, or just blank. Bucky isn’t sure. They aren’t sure about a whole lot right now, except that Steve’s the best friend they’ve ever had and they really don’t think they deserve the same title from him.

Steve would never take it away from them, they know that. Which makes this whole situation worse, not better.

“Fuck this,” Bucky mutters, and pulls Steve into a hug.

It’s awkward for half a second, because Steve doesn’t respond, but then he puts his arms around Bucky and clings on. Too-tightly, almost, except Bucky’s never felt less like complaining about anything in their life.

“Love you,” Steve says, and Bucky has to take a moment to blink much too quickly - they still don’t actually know what their eyes look like, but they’re pretty sure adding a few tear-streaks would ruin whatever effect Clint has created.

“You too.”

Steve and Bucky have never gone through a stage where saying that too each other would have been too weird or awkward to contemplate, which Bucky is so glad for now.

“I’ll go take over from Clint now. Have fun with Sam,” Steve says, drawing back from the hug, and his smile is a teasing one, with only a hint of sadness that Bucky might be imagining anyway.

“I will,” Bucky says, because hopefully saying it out loud will make it true. “I’ll call you tomorrow and tell you about it?”

“That would be great.” Steve looks closely at Bucky’s eyes for a moment, then reaches out and brushes a speck of something away from their cheek. “Perfect. You really do look nice. I wasn’t just saying that.”

“I haven’t even seen it yet,” Bucky admits. “Clint did everything, I just tried not to blink too much.”

“Really? Go look! You’ve got a couple minutes before you have to leave, right?”

Bucky considers it. They aren’t going to be late for Sam if they take an extra five minutes. 

But they find themself reaching back into the apartment and grabbing their coat and shoes - and an umbrella, remembering what had happened to Clint’s make-up - instead, glancing up at Steve as they put them on. He’s frowning, predictably.

“I don’t want to overthink it,” Bucky explains, and then hesitates. “Anyway, I trust you. So.”

Steve’s face lights up then, and Bucky regrets the last two months all over again. Well, not everything with Sam - they’re pretty sure they could never regret that, not for a moment. But letting it all take over their life, not thinking about the effect it might have on Steve - yeah, they’ll be feeling guilty about that for a long, long time.

“Go,” Steve says, laughing a little. “Don’t keep Sam waiting.”

Bucky starts off down the stairs, feeling too energetic now to wait for the lift. They turn back and flash a quick salute at Steve, who returns the gesture, still with a smile on his face.

They still have a lot on their mind. Clint, and Steve, and the fact that they have no fucking clue how much make-up they’re actually wearing right now.

But - Sam’s waiting for them, and they know that both Steve and Clint would be real pissed at them if they didn’t at least try to have a good time tonight.

Bucky runs down the stairs, hoping none of the neighbours are around, and out into the evening. They stop running once they’re outside, even though they still feel kind of on edge, because they really don’t want to be bright red and sweaty on their date.

 **on my way,** they text to Sam. 

**Can’t wait to see you xx** is the almost instant reply, and Bucky walks just a little faster as they make their way to the subway.

* * *

Sam is outside the door of the restaurant already, of course. Bucky’s maybe two minutes late, but they’d bet Sam was at least ten early.

“Hey,” they say as they walk up, feeling shy all of a sudden.

Sam’s eyes go wide in a very gratifying way when they see Bucky, which takes them back yet again to that night Sam had come round to their place to check they were okay. Which had been ridiculously sweet, really, and for the millionth time they wonder how the hell they got so lucky.

They look at Sam, and their expression probably looks just about identical to his when he’d seen them.

Sam looks - stunning. Is that too strong of a word? Nope, definitely not, Bucky’s brain decides, still staring at Sam’s legs. He’s wearing dark purple skinny jeans, black boots, and Bucky can’t see his shirt because of the very attractive-looking black leather jacket he has on.

“Come here,” Sam says, amused and fond, and Bucky’s moving before their brain has even processed the words.

When Sam kisses them, it doesn’t even occur to them to be paranoid about who might be watching. Partly it’s that they know their mom is in a completely different part of the city right now, but mostly it’s just - they don’t really give a fuck anymore, and who would want half their mind to be occupied with something else when they could be focusing the whole of it on the way Sam moves his tongue?

“Hi,” they say again, when they draw back from each other, and this time they don’t feel even a bit shy.

“Hi to you too,” Sam says, taking their hand and leading them into the restaurant. “Booking for Wilson,” he tells the host, who doesn’t look like she - they, Bucky mentally corrects themself - even notices that they appear to be two guys holding hands. Either that or they notice and just really couldn’t care less.

Bucky is trying to not let their mind follow through on the leaping little thought that had appeared when Sam had said _booking for Wilson,_ because it’s just ridiculous. Sam had made the booking, so obviously it’s under his name, and the fact that a brief image of them walking up an aisle together had flashed into Bucky’s mind when they heard it is just absurd and they really need to stop. They’ve been going out for two months, for fuck’s sake. Wedding bells are not around any kind of corner. Jesus.

They get seated in a comfy little booth; it’s not exactly out of the way of the rest of the customers but somehow it feels kind of private anyway. From the smug look on Sam’s face, Bucky thinks that maybe he planned that.

They order Cokes for both of them, and then instead of looking at the menu Bucky sits back in the booth and looks at Sam again.

“So,” they say, unable to stop themself from asking any longer. “You like the eyeliner?”

Sam raises one eyebrow. “That’s kind of an understatement.” He laughs a little. “Seriously, you look - fucking incredible, honestly. Clint again?”

Bucky nods, taking a sip of their drink because their face is starting to feel a bit flushed all of a sudden. “Yeah. He did everything, I didn’t even look at it yet. I kept forgetting I had it on when I was on the subway.”

“Did anyone say anything about it?”

Bucky thinks. “I don’t know if anyone even noticed, to be honest,” they say, although they hadn’t exactly been paying much attention to the other passengers.

“God bless New York,” Sam says, taking his glass and holding it out to Bucky. “No matter how you dress, you always know there’s someone weirder than you out there.”

“Cheers to that,” Bucky says, knocking his glass against Sam’s and laughing a little.

Their server comes up then, and they both realise that they haven’t so much as glanced at the menu.

“I think you’d like this one,” Sam says, reaching over and pointing at something in the noodles section.

“Sure,” Bucky says, without even reading all the description. “Looks good.” Today is clearly a day for trusting people, they guess.

Sam tells their server his choice as well, and then when they’re gone he looks back at Bucky, with what they think is a slightly worried expression.

“I wasn’t trying to be all, y’know, chivalrous or something,” he says, glancing down at the table. “You could have picked something else.”

Oh, is that all? Bucky laughs. “Yeah, of course I could. I just didn’t want to. You worry too much.”

Sam looks very pointedly at Bucky. “Glass houses and stones?” Which, yeah, is fair enough.

“Okay, well. Tonight isn’t a night for worrying,” Bucky says, because if they let themself go down any kind of anxiety track right now they won’t be coming back for a while, especially after the events of the last few hours, and they honestly want to have a good time tonight. 

“Is that our romantic Valentine’s motto? ‘Let’s not worry?’”

“Asshole. And yep, it is now.”

“Fine,” Sam says, looking like he’s trying to stop a smile from breaking out on his face. “Hey, guess what?”

Bucky grins, hoping that Sam won’t take what they’re about to say the wrong way. “You aren’t wearing anything under those very nice jeans?”

Sam rolls his eyes, giving into his smile. “I don’t know how your brain works sometimes, I swear to god. No, I finally told my mom where the fuck Redwing came from.”

“Holy shit,” Bucky says, trying to picture the look Sam’s mom must have had when she’d heard that particular story. “Did she think it was really weird?”

“I mean, probably. It _is_ really weird. But I could tell she mostly thought it was kind of cute.”

Sam has an almost disbelieving expression on his face, as though he still can’t quite take in that his mom is okay with his sexuality. Even though it’s been a month since she found out. Bucky can understand that; as shitty as it is, they feel like they would need more time to come to terms with their mom fully accepting their gender and sexuality than they would if she rejected them. 

They sigh. “Fuck. I really have to come out to my mom.”

“You don’t _have_ to,” Sam says gently. “But I can tell that you want to get it over with.”

“Yeah.” Bucky stares down at the table. “It would be easier if I knew for sure I’d be moving out after summer.”

They still haven’t really thought through the whole ‘take a year out’ thing yet. Oh, they have a vague plan to get some kind of job and save up, maybe retake a couple of the finals they’ll inevitably have failed, but mostly they’re just trying not to think about it.

“You don’t think she’d kick you out, do you?”

Sam sounds honestly worried, and Bucky feels bad because no, they don’t think that.

“She wouldn’t,” they say, about as certain as they can be that it’s true. “I - when I’m being rational, I don’t actually think that she’d mind that much. It’s just.” They fall silent for a moment, not quite sure how to articulate the next part. “It’s just - what if she doesn’t care, but she doesn’t want to use my pronouns? Or what if she thinks I’ll be a bad influence on Becca, or something?”

Sam looks thrown by that, and Bucky feels bad for bringing the mood down when they’re supposed to be on a romantic date. They’re good at doing that, and they really wish they could stop and just focus on all the amazing things that are going on in their life right now instead of constantly wondering when something’s about to go horribly wrong.

Just then, the server reappears with their food, which is good because it means Sam won’t have to figure out how to answer such an awkward couple of questions.

Once the server’s put their food down, they pull out a lighter from their apron and light the candle in the middle of the table, which despite being tiny does actually make everything seem that much more romantic suddenly.

“Forget about what I just said,” Bucky says as soon as the server’s left again. “Or, not forget exactly, but - not tonight, yeah? Remember our Valentine’s motto.”

“Alright,” Sam says, hooking his ankle around Bucky’s under the table and just leaving it there. “In that case, want to try some of my chicken? It looks excellent, and I want to not feel bad when I steal a few of your noodles.”

“Well, if you really want to put my noodle in your mouth, I guess I’m not going to stop you,” Bucky says, already laughing before they’ve even finished the sentence.

Sam pauses with his fork halfway to his mouth, looking half horrified and half delighted. “Oh my god,” he says, putting the fork down. “Oh my _god,_ Barnes, that was terrible.”

“Terribly amusing, you mean?”

“No way,” Sam says firmly. “Just plain terrible.” But he’s smiling, and when Bucky reaches over and puts a forkful of noodles onto his plate the smile turns into a quiet fit of laughter.

“I hate you so much,” Sam says when he’s finally stopping laughing. “I come here with my family, for fuck’s sake. Sarah gets what you’re having all the time!”

“How horribly awkward for you,” Bucky says, grinning widely at Sam. “That’s such a shame.”

“Fuck you too, oh my god.” Sam finally tries a bite of his chicken, and moans a little, which Bucky feels like might be some kind of accidental revenge for their noodle comment. “Okay, you have to try mine,” Sam says, holding out another bite on his fork to Bucky. “Please tell me you can’t make any kind of innuendo about this.”

Bucky leans forward and takes the bite directly off Sam’s fork, thinking as they chew. “Very nice,” they say, deliberately keeping their expression as bland as they can manage. “And have you never heard the expression ‘choking the chicken?’”

“You are the actual worst,” Sam proclaims, then glances to the side and holds up his hand to them before they can say anything else. Bucky looks over to see their server approaching, and they quickly try to think sad thoughts so that they won’t burst out laughing again.

It’s a lot harder than it would have been an hour ago. Sam tends to have that effect on them.

Once they’ve assured their server that yes, everything is lovely - neither of them look at each other when they’re asked about the food - and they’re alone again, Bucky looks at Sam. And promptly starts laughing again.

“I want to say fuck you,” Sam says. “But I just know you’ll take that the wrong way.”

Bucky makes their best attempt to look apologetic. They’re pretty sure it fails miserably. “Sorry. I just - I missed you.”

That shouldn’t make any sense, given that they see each other at least five days a week, but Sam gives them a soft smile that makes Bucky think they’re not the only one who’s been feeling that way. They’ve spent time on their own over the last month, of course they have, but Sam had a rough couple of weeks after telling them about Riley, and they’ve both been way busier than they would like with school stuff.

“Yeah,” Sam says quietly. “I know what you mean. Hey, I’ve been thinking.”

He takes another bite of his meal instead of continuing the sentence, so Bucky nudges Sam’s foot under the table.

Sam rolls his eyes. “Impatient much?” He puts down his knife and fork, takes a sip of Coke, and then finally looks back at Bucky. “I was wondering, do you maybe want to go away somewhere for a bit, after finals? Just for a few days, nothing expensive.”

Oh. Wow. “I’d love to,” Bucky says; they haven’t even thought it all the way through yet but even just the fact that they now know Sam sees a future for their relationship after school ends makes them want to agree to anything.

Plus, a few days on holiday with Sam, just the two of them, sounds amazing now that they’re thinking properly about it.

“Great,” Sam says, looking happy. “We can figure out details another time. Was that a weird thing to ask? It’s only February.”

“Nah,” Bucky says, not caring for a second about whether or not it actually was weird. “It’s a great idea. Gives me something to look forward to when finals are kicking my ass.”

“You’ll get through them,” Sam says, and Bucky tries not to look impatient. They know finals aren’t going to kill them, or anything, but it’s very fucking annoying when people like Sam and Helen tell them to stop worrying. Bucky knows there are some subjects they genuinely might not be able to pass, even if they revise from now until May, whereas Sam and Helen - and half their friendship group, really; why do they hang around with so many smart people? - are mostly worried about shit like if they’re taking enough AP tests.

“Let’s not talk about school, though,” Sam says, maybe seeing something of Bucky’s feelings in their face. “Wait!”

Bucky freezes their hand in mid-air - they’d only been going to rub their eye, what the hell?

“Make-up,” Sam says, and _oh,_ Bucky had completely forgotten about that. They kind of like this new way of experimenting, of letting someone have free reign with them and then just trusting in the results, though they can’t think of many people they’d actually let do that.

“I forgot,” they say unnecessarily. “Does it still look okay?” 

There’s no reflective surfaces around, unless they want to try and squint at their face in the surface of a knife or something.

“Looks amazing,” Sam says warmly. “Hey, want me to take a picture? You’re going to take it off in the bathroom, I’m guessing? Then you could see what it looks like without being surrounded by guys - people, I mean - taking a piss.”

Bucky nods, and Sam immediately takes his phone out. “No, hang on,” Bucky says, still thinking. “I was just saying yes to the taking it off in the bathroom thing, not the picture.”

“Oh, sorry,” Sam says, putting his phone down on the table. “No pressure, obviously. It’s up to you.”

Bucky makes their decision. They look around, and wave at their server, who gives them a quick thumbs-up as if to say they’ll be over when they have a minute. 

Then they move round in the booth until they’re sat next to Sam.

“Um, hi?” Sam says, sounding a little confused.

“Hi,” Bucky says, but it’s to the server who’s just come up to the table, not to Sam. “Would you mind taking a picture of us?”

Sam looks at Bucky with the best kind of smile on his face, and then he passes the server his phone. 

Bucky doesn’t look at the camera. They look at Sam, instead, and smile at the exact moment the picture is taken.

“Thanks,” they say, sincerely grateful, as they take the phone back.

“You’re welcome,” the server says. “Happy Valentine’s Day.”

The picture is - it’s beautiful, Bucky thinks, with a shock. Sam’s face is turned more towards the camera than Bucky’s is, but his eyes are fixed on theirs, and he has that smile on his face that makes everyone around him want to smile back.

And Bucky - their hair is falling around their face, but you can still see their expression, and Bucky’s honestly more focused on just how in love they look than on the soft black-and-green sweeps of make-up that are framing their eyes.

“This would be the cheesiest Facebook profile picture ever,” Sam says, looking over Bucky’s shoulder. “I love it.”

Bucky can’t stop themself from thinking that idea through, even though the thrill it sends through them definitely has more than a bit of fear mixed in with the excitement. “Do you have anyone on Facebook you wouldn’t want to see it?” they ask, unable to believe they’re actually thinking about this seriously.

Sam looks at them, eyes widely. “Actually - no,” he says slowly. “I’m out to my sister, and my cousins wouldn’t care. And I don’t give a fuck if people at school know, really. Plus, ah.”

“Yeah?” Bucky asks, after a few seconds go by while Sam looks like he’s trying to think of the exact words he wants.

“Well,” Sam says, looking at his phone again. “You can’t actually tell you’re, um, assigned male at birth? Is that how I say it? In the photo, I mean.”

Bucky looks quickly back at the picture without answering Sam, and realises that he’s right. Something about the way their head is tilted, or maybe their hair over half their face, makes it impossible to find anything obviously masculine about them.

“Wow,” they say, under their breath. “That’s - weird. People at school would recognise me, though.”

“Probably,” Sam says. “And maybe someone might know your mom, or something. The world’s a fucking small place, especially with social media.”

True. But - “I don’t care,” Bucky says, and maybe they’re feeling just a little braver than usual, but they don’t think they’re going to regret this in the morning. If they do, they’ll deal with it then. “If you want to post it, you can.”

Sam looks at them, probably waiting for them to change their mind immediately. “If you’re sure,” he says finally, clicking through to Facebook on his phone.

“Very.” It sucks, that this whole conversation would never have happened if the world was less of a bullshit place; they could have just posted the picture without even thinking twice about it. But on the other hand, it’s good to know that they can post it at all. Twenty years ago it would have been a hell of a lot more difficult, and they don’t mean because Facebook hadn’t even been invented then.

“Done,” Sam says, and Bucky looks at the phone again. Sam was right, it’s the perfect profile picture. 

Even as they’re looking, Steve likes it. 

“What the fuck,” Bucky says. “He’s supposed to be babysitting!”

“It’s almost nine,” Sam points out, and Bucky does a doubletake. Time has gone way faster than they’d thought. “The kids are probably in bed, right? Or maybe your mom’s back from her date already.”

“Fine, good point,” Bucky says, watching as Helen likes the picture too. “Okay, put your phone away now, else we’ll keep - what the _fuck?_ ”

Sam looks as well. “Shit, I forgot I was friends with him,” he says, seeing the little ‘Brock Rumlow has liked your picture’ notification. “He never posts anything. Hang on, I’ll delete him.”

“No, don’t,” Bucky finds themself saying. “Unless he actually says anything, I mean. Deleting him might just annoy him even more. Plus it’s kind of making me happy to know that either he’s alone on Valentine’s Day, or he’s pissing off his date by being on Facebook.”

“Alright,” Sam says, switching the screen off and putting his phone back in his pocket. “Your call. So, congrats on being sort of Facebook official, I guess?”

Bucky raises one eyebrow. “Is that a modern relationship goal now, you reckon?”

“Oh, for sure,” Sam says, with that expression on that Bucky thinks means he’s bullshitting and knows they know it too. “Along with first vague-tweet about your partner, and, um, first argument over shitty memes?”

Sam laughs even before he’s finished his sentence, and Bucky elbows him in the ribs. “You’re such a dork,” they say, knowing how fucking happy they sound right now and loving it.

“Your dork,” Sam says, and Bucky’s sure it was supposed to be a joke, but it comes out soft and true.

“Yeah,” they say, turning their head just enough to catch Sam’s lips in a quick kiss. _I love you,_ they think, but they don’t know if it’s too soon to say it out loud, or if it would be ridiculously cheesy to say it for the first time on Valentine’s Day.

They just smile, instead, hoping that somehow their eyes are conveying at least a little of what they’re feeling, and kiss Sam again.

“Happy Valentine’s,” Sam whispers, right before Bucky’s lips touch his, and - well, clearly _he’s_ not worried about them being too cheesy.

Bucky still doesn’t say it, though. But they think it as loud as they can, and they kiss Sam without ever once looking around to see if anyone’s watching, and they hope to God that counts for something.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're wondering why Bucky is able to not think about Clint too much on their date; they compartmentalise a lot of stuff in their life without thinking consciously about the fact that they're doing it. This will be explored more in the sequel.
> 
> Feedback always welcome.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I can’t believe you want to see my baby pictures,” Sam hisses as they leave the kitchen.
> 
> “What?” Bucky’s trying to make sure their voice sounds as innocent as possible, and from the way the scowl on Sam’s face deepens they’re pretty sure he knows exactly what they’re doing. “I bet you were an adorable baby.”
> 
> Sam chews on his bread in the most grumpy way imaginable; Bucky hadn’t even known there was a way to do that. “I was,” he admits finally. “Okay, fine. I’m all ready for the humiliation.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so this chapter adds in some much-needed fluff. As always, thank you all for reading!
> 
> No chapter-specific warnings exactly but there is a spoiler for something that happens in the first 30-40 mins of the X-Men First Class movie (details in end notes).

* * *

Bucky knocks on Sam’s apartment door, feeling like they need to throw up. Like they literally, physically are about to vomit. Which is ridiculous, they try telling themself; this isn’t such a huge milestone, it’s going to be fun, maybe, or at least not the worst evening ever -

The door opens, and Bucky feels a bit less ill when they see that it’s just Sam on the other side, and that there’s no-one waiting in the hallway behind him.

“Hi,” they say weakly, holding out the bottle of wine their mom had very kindly bought for them. Honestly, they'd been surprised when she’d said yes, but they guess she knows that they don’t even like wine. And that someone at school could probably get them straight vodka if they really wanted to get drunk. She’s never been one of those parents that act like they’re completely clueless about the kinds of things teenagers can get up to in their spare time.

“Um, wow,” Sam says, taking the wine and turning it around to read the label. “This is very not necessary. But also very cute.”

Bucky really wants to kiss Sam, but they feel like as soon as they lean forward Sam’s entire family are going to poke their heads into the hallway and see them.

That’s not them being paranoid, okay. It’s just a healthy level of - oh.

Sam moves in and kisses them quickly before they even have time to process what’s happening, so they guess that solves that.

“You look terrified, oh my god,” Sam says, looking only a few seconds away from laughter.

“This is a big deal,” Bucky hisses, hoping that their voice won’t carry any further into the apartment.

“Well, kind of?” Sam really doesn’t look anxious at all, which should be making Bucky feel better but isn’t. “You’ve already met my mom, that was the part I was worried about. My dad and sister already love you.”

“Now you’re just making me feel like I have to live up to something,” Bucky mutters, but they feel like they’re breathing a little easier.

“You’re ridiculous,” Sam says in that fond voice that always puts Bucky at ease, and he takes their hand and leads them inside.

Bucky shrugs off their jacket and kneels down to untie their shoes, knowing that not every family cares about stuff like that, but also knowing that it’s a hell of a lot better to go with that than to leave them on and find out too late that Sam’s family is like Bucky’s own mom, who’s practically got the toddlers trained to kick their booties off in the apartment already.

They hang up their jacket, put their shoes neatly underneath it, and suddenly find they have nothing to do with their hands.

“Can I have the bottle back?” they ask Sam as quietly as they can manage.

Sam gives them a sideways look, even as he’s leading them into the living room. “What?”

Fuck.

“Bucky Barnes,” comes a voice from way too close, and Bucky tries to stop themself from jumping half a foot into the air. They mostly succeed. They hope, anyway.

“Sarah,” Sam says, with a very long-suffering expression on his face that Bucky usually only sees when Sam’s been talking to Tony for too long. “Please be nice. You said you would.”

“I am being extremely nice,” Sarah says. “I called him by his name and everything.”

Bucky does actually appreciate when people use their - admittedly weird - name, instead of insisting on James. It goes a long way to making them less bothered by the fact that everyone’s going to be calling them _him_ tonight. Even Sam.

Not the time to think about that now, though. It’s not like they can expect the whole world to be psychic. Or like they’d want that. Maybe a selective kind of mind-reading, so that everyone would know each other’s pronouns, or - fuck, okay, now is really not a good time for their brain to be going off on one of its weird tangents.

“It’s very nice to meet you,” Bucky says, and holds their hand out to Sarah.

“You too, honestly,” she says, looking like she’s laughing a little at the level of formality but taking their hand anyway. “We’d given up hope on this one bringing someone home before he turned twenty. You sure he didn’t pay you?”

Sam scowls. “Stop implying my partner’s a teenage hooker. For fuck’s sake.”

“Language!” comes a call from the kitchen, and both Sam and Sarah wince in unison, which would be funny if Bucky wasn’t still feeling so nervous.

“Come on through,” Sam says, taking Bucky’s hand again and squeezing it slightly.

“Oh, wait,” Sarah says. “I can’t stay tonight.” Sam glares at her. “Sorry,” she adds. “I really can’t. Emergency study group meeting, and I’m the only one with decent notes on endocrinology.”

“I’ll pretend I understood that,” Sam says, letting go of Bucky’s hand to hug his sister quickly. “It’s fine, don’t worry about it. Have fun at the library, nerd.”

“Says you,” she replies, smiling at Bucky over Sam’s shoulder. “I’ll get to know you some other time,” she says to them. “Although Sam never shuts up about you, so I’m not sure how much there is to learn.”

“I hate you,” Sam says, very clearly lying. Bucky looks at him; they think they’ve almost managed to figure out when he’s blushing, and they’d put money on now being one of those times.

“See you again soon, hopefully,” Bucky says to Sarah. “Good luck with studying.” They know that she’s a med student, so more than a bit of luck will most likely be needed. But it’s the thought that counts, right?

She gives them both one last wave and heads out, grabbing a very fluffy-looking red coat on the way.

“Right,” Sam says. “Guess it really is just a meet-the-parents thing, then.”

“Yeah.”

Bucky isn’t feeling quite as nervous now; meeting one more member of Sam’s family has relaxed them a little. Of course, _not quite as nervous_ doesn’t mean there’s no nerves at all, and they feel their heart beating faster as they walk into the kitchen with Sam.

Mrs Wilson turns around from where she’s stood at the cooker as soon as they come in, and the man Bucky knows must be Sam’s dad looks up from the chopping board he’d been focusing on. Bucky suddenly feels like there are a few too many people watching them. One would feel like too many right now, if they’re being honest with themself.

“It’s lovely to see you again, Bucky,” Sam’s mom says, putting down the spoon she’d been holding. 

“You too, Mrs Wilson,” they say, wishing again that Sam hadn’t taken the wine off them already.

“I told you to call me Darlene, now didn’t I?” she says, and Bucky swallows.

“Sorry. Thank you for having me, Darlene,” they say, and they just about restrain themself from adding a _ma’am_ onto the end of that sentence, because apparently uncomfortable social situations send them back a few decades.

“Dad,” Sam says, motioning for Bucky to move further into the kitchen. “This is Bucky, my, um, boyfriend.”

“Nice to meet you, sir,” Bucky says, holding out their hand and hoping some kind of miracle is happening on their face that makes them look completely at ease.

“You too, kid. Call me Tom,” Sam’s dad says, and starts to hold out his hand as well.

“Dad!” Sam says, sounding just a bit alarmed.

Sam’s dad looks down at his hand, still holding the knife he’d been using to chop onions with, and laughs. “Ah.” He puts the knife down, wiping his hand on the apron he’s wearing. “Sorry about that. I promised Sam no-one would make any threatening remarks here tonight.”

“That’s okay,” Bucky says, even as Sam’s mom makes a scoffing kind of noise.

“Sarah made no such promises, you should know that,” she says, turning back to the stove. “I’m surprised she didn’t try to give you a - what was it?”

“Shovel talk,” Sam says, sounding just a little despairing. “She probably would have, but she had to go study.”

“Sit down, boys, come on,” Sam’s dad says. “ No need to stand on ceremony here.”

“Um - can I help with with anything?” Bucky asks, even as they’re taking a seat at the kitchen table. “Everything smells really good,” they add, and it’s far from an empty compliment - there are three different pans on the stove, and the mix of scents coming from them is enough to make their stomach rumble.

“No,” Sam’s mom - Darlene, Bucky reminds themself, only they have a feeling it’s going to take them more than two visits to get used to that - sounds like she isn’t going to back down on that. “Guests -”

“Mom,” Sam interrupts. “Bucky brought you and Dad some wine.” He holds it out, and Mrs Wil - _Darlene_ takes it with a raised eyebrow. Bucky doesn’t think she looks annoyed, but they’re not feeling quite calm enough to trust their instincts yet.

“Well, thank you,” she says. “Looks very nice. You boys can have a few sips, I don’t fool myself that it’ll be your first taste of alcohol.”

Neither Bucky or Sam drink much even when they’re at a party with alcohol; Tony’s house before winter break was the tipsiest Bucky’s ever seen Sam. They try not to think about that right now; not because it’s not a happy memory - far from it, it’s one of their best - but because they don’t want to get distracted by some daydream and accidentally ignore one of Sam’s parents.

That would not be the best way to make a good impression on them. Which Bucky really, really wants to do.

“You’re welcome,” Bucky says. “My mom picked it out,” they add, in the spirit of honesty. And also because they know fuck-all about wine, and don’t want to have to make up some bullshit answer about why they’d chosen that one in particular.

They’re glad all over again that their mom had bought the wine for them; they could have brought flowers or chocolates or something, but wine seems like such a grown-up thing to bring along to dinner. She hadn’t even argued for a second; she’s been in a really good mood over the past few weeks. Bucky’s almost certain that it has something to do with her mystery Valentine’s date; the smile on her face when they’d asked her how it had gone had been more than enough of an answer.

Bucky’s honestly happy for her; if she’s finally found a guy she wants to go on more than one date with then they more than support that. They don’t mind at all that she needs them to look after the girls a little more, even if it sometimes cuts into time they might have spent with Sam.

“She has good taste,” Sam’s dad says, leaning over the counter to look at the bottle. “Will we be meeting her any time soon?”

Bucky swallows. “Um. Probably not.”

“Bucky isn’t out to his mom,” Sam says, and Bucky feels a tiny flash of alarm when they realise how easily Sam had used the wrong pronoun. Sam’s looking at them with a probably apologetic look on his face, though, so they aren’t going to make too much of it. It’s not like there’s any alternative, and really it’s a good thing that Sam can switch between _they_ and _he_ without too much effort; Bucky doesn’t kid themself that this will be the last time he has to do it.

“Oh,” Darlene says, frowning slightly. “Of course. I - well, there’s no rush, is there. It hasn’t been that long since Sam told us. Bit over two months.”

There’s a pause then; Bucky guesses that Sam and Darlene are thinking of the same thing, and they close their eyes for a moment as they remember it too. They know exactly why Darlene can pick how long it’s been with ease; the anniversary of Riley’s death must be a date that stamps itself in their minds every year.

“I knew,” Sam’s dad - _Tom,_ Bucky tries to think, but they feel like that one’s going to take a while to get used to - says, sounding just a little smug.

Darlene rolls her eyes. “Alright, alright,” she says, and as she turns back to check on dinner Bucky looks down at the table. They’re pretty sure her eyes hadn’t been entirely dry, and they wish it had been her rather than Tom chopping the onions so that they would have an easier explanation than the truth.

“Do you think Sarah actually knew before I came out?” Sam asks his parents, sounding honestly curious. “She says she guessed, but I don’t know how.”

There’s an expression on Sam’s face that Bucky thinks is something like mild disbelief, as though he still can’t quite take in that he’s having a regular conversation about his sexuality with his parents, with his partner sitting in the same room. Bucky hooks their ankle around Sam’s underneath the table, and Sam glances at them with a quick smile.

“She claimed that it explains your obsession with X-Men 2,” Tom says. “Which means absolutely nothing to me, I’m afraid.”

From the look of Sam’s face, it sure as hell means something to _him,_ and Bucky makes a mental note to bring it up again later, when it’s just them and Sam again.

“Dinner’s almost ready,” Darlene says then, but it doesn’t come across as a deliberate change in subject. “Sam, set the table?”

“Sure,” Sam says, standing up. “Bucky, can you grab four glasses from that cupboard and fill them with water?”

“Course.” Bucky gets up, glad that Sam had recognised how awkward they’d feel if everyone around them was doing something to help and they were just sat there. They know that they’re a guest still, but guests in the Barnes household tend to get roped into at least watching the girls for a few minutes, and Bucky would much rather try to find a way to be useful than let everyone else do all the work.

The table is ready in a couple of minutes, and Sam and Bucky sit back down, shortly followed by Tom. Darlene starts dishing the food out, heaping at least three large spoonfuls of a delicious-looking pasta onto everyone’s plates, and placing a plate of bread and a large bowl of salad in the middle of the table as well.

This all feels so - adult? An actual dinner party, with wine and everything - well, Darlene hadn’t been kidding when she’d said Bucky and Sam could only have a couple of sips, but it still counts. 

“Everything looks amazing,” Bucky says with complete sincerity, not taking up their cutlery yet. They know that Sam’s family is at least nominally Christian, and that it’s more than that for his mom in particular, and they really don’t want to be the asshole who’s started eating before everyone says grace.

“Oh, it’s nothing,” Darlene says, but when she looks at them her smile is warm, and Bucky can’t help but smile back. Maybe it’s a Wilson family thing, they think, that contagious happiness. “Well, come on,” she says, and Bucky glances around to see that Sam and his dad are already taking bread and salad. “Dig in before it gets cold.”

Bucky grabs a piece of bread when Tom offers it over the table to them, and starts eating that. It’s really nice; the butter has just a hint of garlic, and it’s just come out of the oven so it’s still warm.

Sam takes a giant forkful of pasta. “Mm. This is so good,” he says after a few seconds. “Mom, you seriously have to teach me a few more recipes before college.”

“We weren’t born yesterday, son,” Tom says, as he reaches for his wine glass. Bucky abruptly starts to feel nervous again; they trust their mom to have picked out something nice-ish, but they hadn’t exactly given her a huge budget to work with. “We’ve heard Sarah’s stories about living off noodles and cereal,” he continues, sipping his wine and putting it down again without reacting much - outwardly, anyway. Bucky takes a large gulp of water.

“I’m going to cook!” Sam sounds sort of - outraged, except not really? Like he’s pretending to be, Bucky thinks. They love seeing Sam like this, in a new atmosphere. Well, new to _Bucky._ It’s very clearly the place Sam’s most comfortable in, even more so than school, and Bucky is so fucking glad that they’ve somehow been lucky enough to be welcomed in here.

Hopefully one day Sam will be feeling the same way about the Barnes household, though Bucky doesn’t want to think too much about that right now. One day.

“Of course you are,” Darlene says, in a tone that clearly states _you’ll be home every weekend because you miss our cooking, won’t you?_

“This wine is lovely,” Tom says suddenly, and Bucky looks at him. “And it goes nicely with the sauce we made.”

Bucky isn’t sure what to say. “I’ll tell my mom thanks again,” they go with, and Tom nods at him.

“Please do,” he says, taking another sip. Bucky smiles down at their plate.

They’re just glad that their mom hadn’t really questioned them much when they’d said they wanted a bottle to give to a friend’s parents. They know that some parents would have refused point-blank, which honestly would have been fair enough; it’s technically illegal still for Bucky to drink. But their mom clearly trusts them, at least with something like this, and while that makes them happy - of course it does - it also makes them feel kind of guilty in a way they don’t really want to examine too closely.

Conversation turns to wine for a few more minutes where Bucky and Sam just eat, and then Tom starts asking all the usual questions about what subjects Bucky’s studying in school, and how they think finals are going to go, and what their plans are after summer, and so on. They’d been prepared for all that, though, and they manage to get through without sounding completely useless. Hopefully, anyway. They wouldn’t exactly blame Sam’s parents if they came away from the conversation thinking that Bucky really isn’t good enough for their son - hell, it’s not like Bucky hasn’t had more than a few thoughts along those lines themself - but that doesn’t mean it wouldn’t suck.

Sam looks like he’s trying not to roll his eyes after every question his dad asks, and finally he changes the subject to his own plans for summer, which Bucky already knows about - volunteering, a couple of holidays, maybe a part-time job, and then packing and getting ready for college. Summer is still three months away, but apparently Sam likes having his life figured out in advance. Bucky wonders what that would feel like, but they’re in a pretty good mood now - the amazing meal had definitely helped - so they don’t waste much time worrying about their own lack of any kind of plan.

“Now, Bucky,” Darlene says, after they’ve all almost finished eating. “Sam tells us that it was your birthday last week.”

Bucky quickly swallows their last mouthful of pasta and looks at Sam. Who’s looking at his mom, so he’s no help.

“Ah, yeah,” they say. “On the tenth. We had school, so we didn’t really do much. It was nice, though.”

It _had_ been a nice day, despite the whole, well, school part of it. Steve had made a cake and brought it into school; he’d somehow charmed Coulson into keeping it safe in the staffroom until lunch break. Everyone at their table had sung a very loud Happy Birthday, and by the end half the cafeteria had joined in, even though they clearly hadn’t been sure which of the nine was actually having the birthday.

They usually didn’t do individual presents amongst the group; it could get a bit stressful - and expensive - with that many people. There were a few exceptions, of course; Steve and Bucky always got each other something small, and they know that Sam and Nat have some weird tradition of finding each other the tackiest superhero merch possible at Christmas, so they wouldn’t be surprised if they did that for birthdays as well.

But the usual way they all did things was to pool a bit of money together and either buy one gift from the group as a whole, or put it towards a night out at the movies, or dinner or something like that. The person having the birthday had last say in everything, technically, but some of the best birthdays had been surprises. One particularly memorable one had been Rhodey’s seventeenth; Tony had arranged for them all to dress up fancy and go to some benefit where one of the best classical orchestras in the world had been playing. Bucky knew fuck-all about music like that, but even they’d had a good time; the performance had been incredible, and then at the actual benefit they were all introduced as guests of Howard Stark, so had been treated like, well, like a Stark.

This year, Bucky’s gift was going to be even better than that, apparently, though they’d have to wait until the end of June to find out exactly how good it was going to be. They’d already been informed that it involved the entire group going to the New York City Pride parade, which would be held a couple of weeks after their graduation and prom, and they can’t wait. Just the thought of spending time with everyone after school is officially finished would have been enough, really; the thought that they had planned specifics that far in advance is even better.

So that was going to be the celebration part, but there had been other little things as well. Nat had surprised them by giving them a hand-drawn card; it was kind of abstract and Bucky wasn’t completely sure what it was supposed to be, but Steve had assured them that they really didn’t want a card with some of her more explicit artwork on, so they decided to take the incomprehensible streaks of paint as a good sign.

After school, Sam had treated Bucky to ice cream, because March was definitely not too early for that, and they had caught the subway up to Astoria in Queens, one of the places they both love most in the city. They’d wandered round and looked at all the art for a while, then bought a couple of slices of the best pizza they could remember having - which was really saying something, for two New Yorkers - and headed back to Brooklyn.

“It was a nice day,” they repeat, smiling a little at the memory. Sam’s birthday isn’t until September; they’ll have to think of something extra-special to do then. Especially since Sam will have started college already, and the two of them probably won’t have been able to spend that much time together in the couple of weeks leading up to it.

Maybe they could take him away for a weekend. Somewhere quiet, for just the two of them.

“We got you a little something,” Tom says, which startles Bucky out of their daydream instantly.

What? That had really not been expected. And from the look on Sam’s face, he hadn’t known about it either.

“You - you didn’t have to,” Bucky says, hoping that they’re coming across as just surprised rather than ungrateful.

“We wanted to,” Darlene says firmly. “Especially me.” She glances at Sam. “I know why you didn’t want to tell us straightaway about your relationship -”

“Mom, it wasn’t your fault,” Sam interrupts, but she holds a hand up and he falls silent again.

“I’m not arguing with you right now, I’m just telling you that I understand. So it’s partly a bit of an apology, as well as an eighteenth birthday present.”

Oh. Bucky isn’t sure how to react, and they don’t even know what the present _is_ yet.

“It really isn’t much,” Tomy says, standing up and opening a cupboard, taking out something wrapped in blue paper. “We haven’t got to know you much yet - though we hope that will change, of course. But we wanted it to come from us, so we didn’t ask Sam for ideas.”

Bucky takes the gift held out to them, feeling absurdly like there’s a couple of tears that are wanting to escape from behind their eyes. They can’t help but feel like they cry way too easily, these days, and they blink quickly for a couple of seconds before turning the present over to unwrap it carefully, making sure not to tear the paper.

It’s very obviously a book, and Bucky wonders what on earth they might have got for them. They’re going to pretend to like it even if it’s something really boring; hell, they’ll probably even read it cover to cover, just because of how nice a gesture it had been.

The title is _Brooklyn Then and Now,_ and as Bucky flips through the first few pages, they can see that it’s a series of photographs, with older black-and-white ones on the left-hand pages, and modern-day pictures taken from the exact same spot on the right.

They spot the corner shop that was the furthest Sarah would let them and Steve go to on their own when they were little - the Rogers’ apartment is in the building two doors down, but it had still felt like a grand adventure to them back then - and smile when they see that it had been a florist, once. They can’t wait to show this to Steve and Sarah; it’s exactly the kind of thing they’d both pore over for hours. 

“I love it,” they say, with complete sincerity. “I really do.” They look first at Tom and then at Darlene. “Thank you so much.”

“You’re welcome,” they both say, at the same moment Sam leans over and says: “Can I see?”

Bucky laughs and moves the book closer to him with one hand, pushing both their plates further out of the way with the other. 

“Oh, wow. That’s really cool,” Sam says, carefully turning the pages. “You’re such a Brooklyn convert, Mom.”

Bucky looks up at Darlene. “You weren’t born here?” They’d got to know her a little, that day in January when they’d come round to find Sam barely holding himself together, but both them and Darlene had been focused on making sure Sam was alright, so they hadn’t actually spent much time swapping information about themselves. They’d had a great conversation involving a few of Sam’s childhood mishaps over lunch, which Bucky remembers very fondly, but other than that Bucky had spent most of their time in Sam’s room.

Now that they think about it, her accent does sound a little less Brooklyn than, say, Bucky’s mom’s does.

“I grew up in Manhattan, actually,” she says. “And Tom was a Harlem kid through-and-through.” Tom makes a cough that sounds very much like _still am._ “We only moved over the river after we got married. I got a job here, but then Sarah decided to come along about a year later.”

“And then me,” Sam says, still looking at the book.

“And then you, you terror.”

Everyone laughs at that; by all accounts Sam had been the furthest thing from a terror imaginable. A bit of a troublemaker, sure, Bucky can imagine that, but they find it hard to picture even a four-year-old Sam being outright mean.

That reminds them. There’s a tradition when it comes to meeting your partner’s family, they’re pretty sure. And traditions can be important. Even if they make your partner horribly embarrassed - or maybe _especially_ then, in this particular case.

“Can I see a picture of Sam when he was a baby?” they ask, ignoring the horrified sound Sam lets out.

Darlene laughs, sounding absolutely delighted, and Bucky feels sort of warm inside in a way they don’t feel very often.

“Oh, _can_ you,” she says, standing up and taking their plates. “You boys move into the living room. Me and Tom can clean up quickly.”

Sam and Bucky help with clearing up a little; well, Bucky puts the leftover salad in the fridge while Sam eats the last piece of bread. But Darlene waves them out of the room when they try to start on the dishes, and they both obey.

“I can’t believe you want to see my _baby pictures,”_ Sam hisses as they leave the kitchen.

“What?” Bucky’s trying to make sure their voice sounds as innocent as possible, and from the way the scowl on Sam’s face deepens they’re pretty sure he knows exactly what they’re doing. “I bet you were an adorable baby.”

Sam chews on his bread in the most grumpy way imaginable; Bucky hadn’t even known there was a way to do that. “I was,” he admits finally. “Okay, fine. I’m all ready for the humiliation.”

Bucky follows Sam into the living, but tugs his sleeve as soon as they’re sat down on the sofa. They just have to check. “You - we don’t have to, you know. If it bothers you.” They’re _pretty_ sure Sam had just been playing around, but they want to be certain. Just in case.

Sam crosses his legs and makes himself comfortable. “Nah,” he says, sounding way more relaxed already. “I don’t mind, it’s cool. I was mostly messing with you.”

“Okay. Good.”

“Plus,” Sam says, and the smile on his face definitely has a little teasing edge to it now. “I’ve already seen half of yours.”

What? 

“No you haven’t - _how?”_ is all they can think of to ask, because they can’t help but feel like Sam’s lying, only why on earth would he make that up?

“Steve,” is all Sam says, and _oh,_ fucking hell, of course. “This was ages ago,” Sam continues, sounding very pleased with himself. “Way before we got together. I just asked Steve if I could see some more pictures of him as a kid, you know - I still can’t get my head around how different he was - and, well.”

“And I was in half of them,” Bucky finishes, rolling their eyes a little. “Damn.” They hadn’t even thought of that, but it makes perfect sense.

Sam looks around quickly to check that his parents are still in the kitchen, and Bucky reminds themself to not swear here. 

“More like ninety percent,” Sam says, shifting so that he’s leaning against the arm of the sofa, and then tucking his feet underneath Bucky’s thighs. Bucky glares at him, but they’re pretty sure it’s half-hearted at best.

“How are your feet cold in socks?” they say, but they don’t do anything to move them, even when Sam wiggles his toes.

“My favourite photo was that one with you dressed up in a nurse’s costume,” Sam says, and Bucky doesn’t even need to think about it; they know exactly which one he means. “Oh - wait. That, um. I think I saw that one before you, y’know, came out,” he continues. “I never made any connection before now.”

“Because there isn’t one,” Bucky says easily. They remember that day pretty clearly, even though it had been a long time ago. Their mom had asked their dad to buy a last-minute Halloween costume for Bucky. He’d grabbed what he’d thought was a doctor’s outfit pack off the rail at some bargain store, paid without looking, and gone home and acted like the best dad in the world for all of two minutes, before Bucky had excitedly pulled the costume out of its packaging and realised it was a dress.

“My dad accidentally bought a nurse costume - which was a dress, naturally, because sexism - instead of a doctor’s one,” they explain, not wanting to go into too much detail.

The mix-up hadn’t actually bothered them as much as it might have bothered some boys that age, and they’d insisted on keeping the dress even when it made their dad almost-shout at their mom a lot - Bucky can only vaguely remember that particular conversation between their parents, but looking back they’re pretty sure it included a lot of things along the lines of _this is your fault, Winnie, if he hangs out with your friends anymore they’re going to turn him into a fucking -_

Well. Anyway.

Sam’s still waiting for the other half of the story, so they push those particular childhood memories aside and focus on what had happened the next day.

“Steve was sick that month,” they continue. “Real sick. He didn’t get that bad very often, actually. He could usually get through most days at school, but he missed half the semester that year. He couldn’t breathe right, but for some reason it wasn’t enough to keep him in hospital? I don’t really remember that bit, I guess Sarah wouldn’t have talked to me about it. We were maybe seven or eight.”

Sam’s frowning, and Bucky turns so that they can see him better, pausing in case he has something he wants to ask.

“Steve didn’t tell me it was that bad,” he says quietly, and Bucky doesn’t laugh, because that wouldn’t be the best response, but they aren’t too far from it.

“Um, have you met Steve?” they say, glad when Sam smiles a little at that.

“Good point. Sorry, keep going. I still don’t see how this ended up with you dressed up as a nurse.”

“Oh, well, Steve couldn’t go trick-or-treating that year. We usually went round either his building or mine - or both, one year, that was the best. But he really couldn’t walk much right then. So, yeah, I wanted to wear the dress and then I could be Steve’s nurse, and then we’d be able to go out for Halloween. Kid logic, what can I say.”

“But you don’t think that you were trans back then?” Sam asks, with nothing more than simple curiosity in his voice.

“What, because I was fine wearing a dress?” Bucky sighs. There’s no straightforward answer to that question, and they don’t know if there ever will be. “I don’t know. I really don’t know. I don’t remember ever feeling any kind of dysphoria. I played with girl toys sometimes, I guess, but I was a kid, so I’m pretty sure I just wanted to play with whatever I could.”

“Sorry,” Sam says, looking like he feels bad now, which is the last thing Bucky wants. “It’s none of my business. You don’t have to know.”

“It’s fine. It - I’d kind of like to know, to be honest, but I don’t see how I ever will. I don’t remember a single time before I was maybe twelve or thirteen when I thought of myself as anything other than a boy. And I know that a lot of trans people felt out of place from a really young age, but I honestly don’t think I did. I don’t want to, like, revise my childhood to fit that, you know?”

That still doesn’t quite get across their thoughts on the matter, but since they still aren’t entirely sure what their thoughts _are,_ it’s going to have to do.

“Yeah, of course. And, um.” Sam looks hesitant, so Bucky gestures for him to continue. “I’m not saying it’s _easier_ for - is the term binary trans people?”

Bucky frowns. “I’ve not heard that one used before, but I know what you mean. People who are female or male, but weren’t assigned their correct gender at birth?”

Sam nods, looking relieved. “Yeah, exactly. I just meant - at least for them, there’s a few examples in the media, and some people around them might be able to recognise signs, I don’t know. But, well. Not that many people have heard of being non-binary still, I don’t think?”

“True. It’s definitely easier to figure out what I identify with and what I don’t when there’s actual names for it all,” Bucky says slowly. “For me, anyway. I know some people don’t like labels.”

“I might end up being one of them,” Sam says with a shrug. “I still don’t know what my sexuality is.”

“That’s fine, though.”

Sam smiles at them. “I know. Hey, come on. Storytime still. My mom and dad are probably nearly done with cleaning up.”

Bucky thinks back to where they’d left off before they’d been sidetracked. “Oh, yeah. So I thought maybe I could take Steve out if I was in a nurse costume, because that’s how my brain worked then, apparently. My mom was in on it, she put pyjama pants and a giant coat on over the costume so my dad wouldn’t see it, and took me over to Steve’s place.”

Bucky’s pretty sure their mom had rung Sarah up in advance, as well, because she hadn’t even blinked when Bucky had pulled off their coat to reveal a badly-fitting nurse’s dress and announced _now Steve has two nurses, so he can get all better!_

“It didn’t end up exactly how I’d planned,” they continue, thinking back to how happy Steve had been, and then how - briefly - crushed his face had turned when Sarah had gently said that it didn’t work quite like that, that Bucky could stay over but that they still wouldn’t be able to go out into the cold. “It was better, though. My mom and Sarah were on the phone for a bit, while I was trying to cheer Stevie - Steve, sorry - up. And then we heard a knock on the door, and Sarah told us two to answer it.”

Bucky takes a breath. That had been such an amazing moment, and it’s one of those childhood memories that has actually got better with time, now that they understand a little more about what their mom and Sarah must have been thinking.

“Suspense,” Sam complains, so Bucky deliberately pauses even longer than they’d been going to.

“Patience,” they say, laughing when Sam sticks his tongue out at them. “Okay, okay. So, we opened the door, and there was Steve’s neighbour from across the hall. And she’d brought out her little hall table, and a chair, and was sitting with a cup of tea like she was just having a nice quiet evening at home.”

“Oh my god,” Sam says. “That’s the cutest thing I’ve ever heard. So it was like you were the ones knocking on her door?”

“Yeah.” Bucky can’t suppress a smile as they picture again the look of pure joy on Steve’s face when he’d realised what was happening - it had taken Bucky a bit longer to figure it out; it had taken Steve gasping out _trick-or-treat! Oh, trick-or-treat!_ for them to be clued in. “And she had a little bucket of sweets all ready, and we put them in my nurse’s cap and then walked around the landing before going back inside. It was pretty cute, I won’t lie.”

“Adorable,” Sam says. “Riley convinced me to dress up as an Egyptian mummy one year, which was a mess. He basically held one end of a toilet roll while I held the other and spun around in a circle.”

Sam doesn’t sound upset to be talking about Riley, so Bucky goes along with him. “How’d your mom take that?”

“As well as you can imagine. We used up all the toilet paper in the house, plus I’d only been spinning in one direction the entire time, so I kept losing my balance and walking into walls for like an hour.”

Before Bucky can do anything but laugh at that image, they hear a door open and close somewhere in the apartment, and a few seconds later Darlene comes into the room. She’s holding a giant photo album, bound in red material, and she sets it carefully down on the coffee table in front of the sofa.

“You boys alright?” she says, looking just a little concerned. Bucky wonders what expression they’ve got on. Not an unhappy one, they don’t think. Nostalgic, maybe?

“We’re fine,” Sam says, smiling at her. “Hey, Mom? Can you get the blue one as well?”

She looks blindsided for just a second, but recovers quickly. “Of course,” she says, and somehow Bucky thinks they can guess why she’d been taken by surprise.

Once she’s left the room again, they turn to Sam. “Is - is that the one with photos when you’re older?” they ask, and they know that Sam will hear the unspoken words: _is that the one with photos of you and Riley?_

“Yeah,” Sam says, quiet and a little sad, but smiling softly when he meets Bucky’s eyes.

They look through both albums, and Tom joins them a little while later, sharing some more stories from when Sam was a kid, and - god, Bucky _isn’t_ part of this family, of course they aren’t, they haven’t been with Sam all that long, but - they can’t help but feel like someday they might be, and that thought is scary and wonderful enough to keep them distracted almost all the way through a tale about the time Sam and Riley managed to hide a stray cat in the apartment for a whole two days.

“We were trying to keep it safe, okay,” Sam is insisting when Bucky tunes back in. “It only had three legs! How was it supposed to survive in New York? All the cab drivers here act like they’re in a freaking car chase scene.”

“Three legs, sure, and about three _hundred_ fleas,” Darlene points out, turning the page of the photo album - she’s sitting opposite Sam and Bucky, so she’s looking at the pictures upside down, but she seems to recall every one of them perfectly anyway. “Oh, this one. Now, where was that?”

Tom leans over from his armchair. “I think Riley’s mom and dad gave us that picture. Maybe when they took Sam with them to visit relatives?”

“I remember that,” Sam says, reaching out but not quite touching the page. “I thought we’d driven halfway across the country, but they just lived upstate. We basically climbed trees and pretended we were explorers for the entire weekend.”

“Sounds like that time I lost you two in Central Park,” Tom says, and the tone of his voice makes it sound like a once-scary memory that’s been softened and made fonder by the passing of time.

Bucky should feel out of place here, maybe, surrounded by a lifetime of shared memories that they haven’t been a part of.

They don’t, though. Not at all. Sam’s hand is warm in theirs, and they feel welcomed in a way they can only pray Sam will feel one day, when Bucky finally feels able to introduce him to their mom as their partner, instead of just as their friend.

* * *

An hour later, the two of them are on Sam’s bed. Bucky is half-lying on Sam, the blankets are pulled up around them both, and they’re watching X-Men First Class, because Sam has apparently been wanting to do an experiment where someone watches that one before they see the first and second X-Men films, and Bucky is more than happy to oblige. Especially if it means Sam running his fingers through their hair like he’s doing now, almost unconsciously, as though his hand had just found itself there.

“I will literally never forgive them for Darwin,” Sam says, and Bucky nods sleepily.

“Yeah, that seems fucked-up.”

“His power was _fucking survival,”_ Sam mutters, along with something along the lines of _blatant racism, Jesus._

Bucky doesn’t disagree, so they just nod again, finding it hard to think of any words when they’re this close to Sam.

Sam reaches over and pauses the film, then turns to kiss the side of Bucky’s head.

“Okay, sleepy,” he says fondly, running his fingers through their hair one last time. “You should probably be getting back now, right?”

“No,” Bucky protests automatically, before realising they have absolutely no clue what the time is. They squint at Sam’s laptop, and sigh. “Yeah. Damn.”

“I’m glad you like being here so much,” Sam says, and Bucky can hear the laughter in his voice. “But I want to make a good impression on your mom someday as well, you know. And I don’t think kidnapping you for the night is the way to start things off.”

He hadn’t said that with any hint of pressure, so Bucky decides not to let themself feel any. They sit up properly, stretching out their arms in front of them.

“I had a nice time tonight,” they say, not looking at Sam. “Tell your mom and dad thanks from me again?”

Sam leans over and kisses their cheek, then gathers their hair back and holds his hand out. “Sure,” he says, taking the hairband that Bucky gives him and looping it carefully round their hair, making a ponytail that’s almost exactly how Bucky does their own.

Bucky feels their heart speed up a little. 

“Thanks,” they say, and they aren’t quite sure what exactly they’re thanking Sam _for,_ but they know that they mean it anyway.

“Anytime,” he says lightly, giving them a little push.

They stand up, because Sam’s right, they should really be making a move, and reach out to pull Sam up with them.

Sam resists for a second. “I’m comfy!”

“Sam,” Bucky says, trying to sound solemn. “Would your mom want you to show your guest to the front door?”

Sam glares at Bucky, but it’s very obviously about ninety percent fake. “Damn you,” he says, standing up and taking Bucky’s hand. “You and my mom can’t gang up on me already, you’ve only met twice.”

“See you, Redwing,” Bucky says as they leave Sam’s room, looking back at the bird propped in the corner. It really does get worse the more times you see it, they reflect, but they can’t help but feel a weird kind of attachment to it - and to the fact that Sam kept it, more to the point - anyway.

Sam groans quietly. “If we were in a horror movie, that thing would definitely come alive,” he says.

“I’m very offended on behalf of Redwing,” Bucky says, trying to keep themself from laughing.

“Yeah, yeah. You try waking up to it staring at you every morning.”

Bucky puts their shoes and jacket back on, and leans in to kiss Sam goodnight. Sam deepens the kiss for a few seconds, and Bucky almost forgets that they really need to leave.

“Stop being distracting,” they mutter, reluctantly letting go.

“Can’t help it,” Sam says, leaning back for one more kiss - but a quick one, this time.

“Night.” Bucky looks back as they head down the stairs, and Sam’s still there, watching them with a smile on his face even though it’s not exactly warm in the hallway, and _fuck_ all they want to do right now is turn around and go back inside with him, curl up again and complain about their favourite films and let Sam play with their hair and share sleepy kisses and - 

They force themself to wave, and keep walking.

One day, maybe, it’ll be just them and Sam, in their own apartment, and Bucky wouldn’t need to get out of bed and go anywhere, they could just live their lives like that every day. Well, they’d probably both have jobs, and other boring real-life things, but the point is that when they were at home they’d always be with each other, and they could have silly arguments about whose turn it was to do the dishes, and - Bucky feels like they should probably be fantasising about their future sex life, instead of domestic stuff like that, but it’s _their_ weird fantasy.

There’s plenty of time for all that, Bucky reminds themself sternly. No need to get ahead; high school isn’t even over, and there’s a lot of steps to get through between where their relationship is now and them actually living together.

But they still can’t help but imagine. There’s no harm in that, is there?

One day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One note: however a trans person looks at their gender before transition/before realising they were trans/before coming out is super personal I think. People realise different things at different ages, it's never too late. And some people might figure out they've been a certain gender/identity all along, they just haven't had the words to express it before. Bucky is uncertain of whether feeling like they don't want to retroactively gender their kid self as non-binary instead of male is an okay way to feel (which it is of course!), and they still have a fair few things to figure out. Yay for more emotional angst at some point (sequel, probably), sorry about that.
> 
> Spoiler for X-Men First Class = a character called Darwin is killed (which IS bullshit, honestly, HIS POWER IS SURVIVAL okay sorry I'll stop).
> 
> Hope you enjoyed a bit of Wilson family/childhood memories fluff, I had fun writing it :)
> 
> Comments along the lines of 'this still makes sense after 80k' or 'this bit is a little confusing, could you add a few lines of explanation' honestly mean so much to me, this is close to twice the length of my previous longest fanfic and it's getting a bit overwhelming trying to make sure it's still (hopefully!) one coherent work. Having said that, I can't believe that there's only 3 more chapters to write, I'm going to be really sad when it's over!
> 
> So yeah, feedback welcome (including concrit), thanks for reading!


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Cool.” Sam hesitates, but Sarah hasn’t teased him - much - about being in a relationship yet, so he decides to keep going. “Me and Bucky were hoping to have a few days away somewhere as well. Not sure where yet.”
> 
> The corner of Sarah’s mouth twitches, as though she’s restraining herself from smiling. “Aw,” she says, and it only sounds a little patronising, so Sam’s going to take it as a win. “How cute. Do you think you guys will stay together after summer?”
> 
> Sam looks up at the ceiling, really wishing that she hadn’t asked that. It’s not like it hasn’t been on his mind, but he’s been trying to ignore the thought as much as is humanly possible.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only maybe 3 chapters left after this one! I'll be sad to finish it, I've met some really lovely people through this so thank you all <3
> 
> Chapter warnings: brief mention of suicide (not intended at all seriously), discomfort with physical intimacy.

* * *

“Describe, with examples, the difference between ionic and covalent bonds,” Sam says, already answering the question in his head.

Bucky looks blank, even though they’ve been covering this in chemistry pretty much every semester of the last four years.

“Ionic is when - they share electrons?” They look like they’re already fully aware that isn’t right, so Sam doesn’t say anything. “Fucking hell, when the fuck am I going to need to know this shit?”

Bucky buries their head in Sam’s pillow, very dramatically. Sam has a feeling they’re attempting to silently scream into it. Which he sympathises with, really, revising for finals is its own special layer of hell, but -

“Could you maybe not drool all over my pillow?” he asks mildly. And very reasonably, he thinks.

Bucky gives him the finger, without looking up.

Sam sighs, and puts down his textbook. “Bucky, come on,” he says. “I’m not enjoying this either.”

“At least you’re not a fucking moron,” is the muffled reply. 

Shit. Sam moves all his revision stuff off his bed, and lies down on his back next to Bucky, who’s still doing their best ostrich impression with the pillow.

“Don’t say that,” Sam says quietly. “Please.”

Bucky finally rolls onto their side, and Sam turns his head so that they’re looking at each other. They’re kind of awkwardly close now, but he doesn’t want to look away again.

“Sorry,” Bucky mutters, sounding more than a bit reluctant. “Ableist language, I know.”

What? Oh.

“I mean - yeah, okay, also that,” Sam says, wondering if he should get a Tumblr so that he can keep up with Bucky when they say stuff along those lines. “But I just meant I hate you calling yourself shit like that. You’re smart. Aren’t you tied for top place in history?”

“No,” Bucky says, in a voice about as petulant as a five-year-old, and Sam’s heart sinks. “I’m beating Pepper now. She screwed up on the last Vietnam essay.”

Oh, thank God. “That’s amazing,” Sam says honestly. “You don’t need to be good at every single subject.”

“You are,” Bucky points, out, and - well, it’s not untrue, is the thing, and arguing against it is just going to seem like false modesty, or like he’s patronising Bucky. Sam isn’t the smartest person in the school, but there isn’t a subject he doesn’t get at least decent marks in. Even math, his weak point, has been getting way better over the last few weeks.

“This is pointless,” Bucky says, before Sam can figure out what the hell he’s supposed to say here. “I’ll quiz you instead. Least one of us might be able to do something with their life.”

They aren’t meeting Sam’s eyes anymore.

“Bucky,” Sam says firmly, and waits until they look at him. “You’re going to figure out what you want to do, and you’re going to be great at it. And there’s no rush, okay. Just because I know what job I want doesn’t mean you have to. Fuck all the teachers that say we have to have our lives planned out for us before we graduate. That’s bullshit, and you know it.”

“That was some speech,” Bucky says, but they don’t say it in a mean way. They sigh, long and quiet, and prop their head up on their arm so that they’re looking down at Sam. “I know,” they continue. “I know. I just - this is fuckng stressful. I don’t even think I want to go to college if it’s just going to be more of this.”

“There’s a lot of fun stuff as well in college,” Sam points out.

“True, I guess.” Bucky closes their eyes for a few seconds, and when they open them they lean down and give Sam a quick kiss. “I don’t want to talk about this anymore. Seriously, I’ll quiz you.” They grin at Sam, fierce and yet somehow tender, in sharp contrast to the expression they’d had on only a few seconds before. “Hey, I have an idea,” they say, and for some reason Sam feels anxious at hearing those words.

“What’s that?” he asks, hoping he doesn’t sound too wary.

Bucky leans over him, and Sam instinctively feels himself trying to move back slightly. Which is impossible, of course, since he’s lying flat on his back. Maybe he should have wished for Shadowcat’s power to move through any object.

“Every time you get an answer right, I’ll _reward_ you,” Bucky says, and wiggles their eyebrows in what’s probably supposed to be an amusing way.

Sam can’t manage to summon up even a fake laugh. 

“Um,” he says, and it comes out way too high-pitched. Words, words, what the fuck are words? He needs to think of something to say fast, before Bucky - 

Too late.

Bucky’s already drawing back, looking more than a little worried.

“I was only joking,” they say, and it sounds sincere. “And even if I hadn’t been, I just - I meant maybe a kiss, or something.”

“I know that,” Sam says, very unconvincingly. Fuck.

Bucky sits against the wall, no longer touching Sam at all. Sam sits up as well, still not knowing what to say.

“Sorry,” he tries, and Bucky frowns at him.

“Don’t apologise,” they say. “I should be the one saying that. I didn’t mean to - make you uncomfortable, or anything.”

“You didn’t,” Sam says automatically, which really wasn’t the best thing to say, not when they both know it was a lie.

Bucky sighs, leaning back against the wall. “Come here,” they say quietly, patting the space next to them, where Sam would be sat close but still not touching, and - no, that’s not what he wants.

“Um,” Sam says, trying to figure out a way to articulate what it is he wants without sounding pathetic. “Can you - if you sit here, okay,” he says, gesturing to where all his pillows are piled up at the top of his bed, and Bucky obeys him with only one confused look. “Yeah, and then -”

Sam moves until he’s leaning back against Bucky’s chest, and tugs the covers up around them both. Bucky holds Sam after a few seconds, tight enough that he can feel it, loose enough that he’d be able to break free easily if he wanted to.

Which he honestly doesn’t, not at all. It isn’t that he doesn’t want Bucky touching him - far from it, really. He’s not even sure what it is. But he’s going to need to figure it out fast, because he owes Bucky one hell of an explanation.

“I’m really nervous about, um,” he begins, hearing that one teacher’s voice in his head: _if you aren’t mature enough to talk about it, you aren’t mature enough to be doing it!_ “You know.” God, he sounds like he’s fucking twelve.

“Having sex?” Bucky asks, their arms holding Sam steady.

“Yeah,” Sam says, feeling too young but at the same time too old to be having this talk; what the hell kind of eighteen-year-old doesn’t want to have sex?

He feels terrible as soon as he thinks that, because he knows that Nat never wants to have sex - except for ‘experimental purposes,’ she’d told him, and he doesn’t want to wonder too much about what exactly she’d meant by that. But he isn’t asexual, he’s pretty certain of that, and he’s very attracted to Bucky, and - and there’s just no good reason for him to feel like this, which pisses him off.

“We don’t have to,” Bucky says, sounding very serious. God, Sam’s glad that they’re lying like this, both because he loves being held by Bucky but also because he doesn’t think he could get through this conversation if they were face to face. “You know that, right?”

“Yeah,” Sam says, because he does know that, but that isn’t the point. “Wait, when you say we don’t have to. You want to, right?”

Bucky ducks their head down, so that Sam thinks he can almost feel their lips against his neck. “Sort of,” they say. “I don’t know how to answer that.”

“Sort of?” What the hell does that mean?

Bucky stays quiet for a moment. “I love the idea of having sex with you,” they say slowly. “But - I can tell that thinking about it freaks you out, and I’m not sure why. So that’s why it’s only sort of.”

“Oh.”

What is Sam supposed to say to that?

“If you - if you had a bad experience, or, or something,” Bucky says, sounding a little choked up, and oh _shit,_ Sam had really not meant to make them think anything along whatever lines those are.

“No,” he says instantly. “I don’t know what exactly you’re thinking, but no.” He doesn’t know if it’s just his imagination, but he thinks he hears Bucky give a little sigh, maybe of relief. “I’ve - I kissed one girl, in a spin-the-bottle thing, and then nothing till you. That’s literally all the experience I have.”

He isn’t ashamed of that, exactly. It’s just - for some reason, he gets the impression that people assume he’s already had sex. He guesses that he should probably take it as a compliment or something; maybe it means he comes across as confident? But mostly it just makes him feel like he _should_ have had sex before now, and that’s a shitty way to be feeling.

“That’s okay,” Bucky says, and yeah, it wasn’t just Sam’s imagination, they definitely sound relieved. “We can take it slow. Or, I mean, you don’t even have to look at it like that. I really - it’s fine if you don’t want to have sex at all. Nat doesn’t.”

“I’m not asexual, though,” Sam points out. “I’m just making this into a way bigger deal than it should be.”

“No you’re not,” Bucky says, and Sam can tell that they’re frowning even though they can’t see their face. “Sex is - it’s different for everyone, I’m pretty sure. It can be a big deal. It doesn’t have to be, but it definitely can be.”

That seems like an excellent opening to ask something Sam’s been wondering about for a while. “How do you feel about it?”

Bucky makes a weird noise that Sam can’t interpret, especially not without seeing their face. “I don’t know,” they say. “I don’t think I’m that nervous about having sex with you. Except the, y’know, logistics of it. Like, I might be terrible at giving blowjobs.”

Sam laughs at hearing that, still feeling keyed-up but starting to relax a little. “Oh my god. Bucky, just the idea would probably make me come in like a minute. I really don’t think you have anything to worry about.” Something else occurs to him then; he isn’t sure why - maybe something about the way Bucky had mentioned blowjobs specifically, rather than sex in general. “Um, so. Have you - done anything, before?”

Bucky stays quiet for a moment. “Yeah,” they say finally. “I’ve had sex before. With a couple different people, actually. Sorry if that’s weird for you.”

“No, it’s not,” Sam says, even though it might be, just a little. “It’s none of my business.”

“Kind of is,” Bucky says easily. “Well, I get what you mean. But it doesn’t bother me, talking about it. I just didn’t tell you ‘cause I didn’t want you to think I was expecting anything.”

“That’s - really great of you.” Sam hasn’t forgotten that Bucky had basically said they’d be fine with the two of them never having sex at all, which seems like something he’s going to need to process later. “Who was it? That you slept with, I mean?”

“There was definitely no sleep involved,” Bucky says wryly, and Sam feels a little curl of warmth at hearing that - _he’s_ fallen asleep beside Bucky, after all, which in a way seems even more intimate than having sex with someone. “First time was when I was sixteen, at this party at my aunt’s place. It was with the daughter of her neighbours; we snuck upstairs to a spare room because we were both bored out of our minds.”

“Oh,” Sam says, not knowing how to respond to that.

Bucky laughs. “Not very romantic, I’m aware. Anyway, yeah, there’s not a whole lot else to the story. I came in like three minutes, I’m one hundred percent sure she didn’t come at all, and then we both got dressed in a panic when we heard someone coming upstairs.”

Sam tries to think of something to say that isn’t just another _oh._

“I have her on Facebook still,” Bucky says before Sam manages to come up with anything. “Is that weird? She wants to be an actress, I think.”

“I don’t have much precedence for if it’s weird or not,” Sam points out. 

“Eh, I don’t really care if it is,” Bucky says, still sounding way more at ease than Sam’s feeling. “We did talk about it before we tried anything; we both agreed it was never going to be any kind of relationship. Plus she lives in Indiana.”

Sam doesn’t really want to hear a whole lot more about the girl Bucky lost their virginity to, and it isn’t because he’s jealous or anything - well, maybe just the tiniest bit. Mostly he’s starting to get curious about the other person Bucky’s had sex with.

He can ask. Probably. Bucky had seemed fine talking about their first time, why would they be bothered about Sam asking about their second?

“You can ask,” Bucky says in an amused tone. Damn.

“Stop reading my mind.” Sam pinches Bucky’s hand, very lightly. “Okay, yeah, you got me. I’m - who was the other person?”

“Mm. That was last summer, right before school started up again. They - he, I mean, sorry, I’m so used to avoiding pronouns. Um, he worked at that coffee shop where I got my summer job. We weren’t a thing or anything, not really. We just used to mess around a bit after work. Handjobs was about as far as we went.”

Sam feels just a small bit more jealousy at hearing that story, and he doesn’t know if it’s because Bucky’s had sex with this guy more than once, because it was with a guy, or just because it was only a few months ago. None of those are particularly good reasons to feel jealous, he’s pretty sure, so he keeps them to himself.

“Thanks for telling me,” he says instead, still not sure if he’s glad he asked or not.

Bucky makes a quiet little humming noise. “You can always ask me whatever, you know,” they say. “I’ll just say I don’t want to answer if it bugs me.”

Sam folds his hands around Bucky’s. “Thanks,” he says, because he knows that Bucky wouldn’t have offered that if they didn’t mean it. “Same to you,” he adds after a moment more thought.

Bucky murmurs something, quiet enough that Sam only feels it as a breath against his skin; he hadn’t been able to hear any of the words. 

He knows what he wants it to have been, but - Bucky would have said it louder, surely, if they’d wanted Sam to hear?

He isn’t going to ask, not now, and he isn’t going to say it either, just in case. But - soon, maybe. 

_Love you,_ he thinks to himself, feeling more at peace than he has in weeks.

* * *

Sam knocks on the door to Sarah’s room after Bucky’s left, hoping that she isn’t in the middle of studying up on some horribly graphic medical procedure or anything like that. Even the covers of her textbooks have gross pictures on, which Sam thinks is beyond unnecessary. 

“Come in,” she says after only a second, sounding kind of distracted.

Not by work, though, Sam sees as soon as he’s opened the door. She’s on one of her MMO games - Runescape, he’s pretty sure; he’s a die-hard nerd but he’s never really got into those kind of games - and is busy clicking away, trying to kill some kind of giant dragon-thing.

“Wow. The graphics are a lot better than the last time I saw this game,” Sam says, looking over her shoulder. 

“Fuck off fuck off fuck off,” she mutters, pressing about eight keys at once, with her eyes still fixed on the screen. Sam just grins and sits down on her bed, happy to wait for her to finish up whatever the hell quest or boss fight she’s doing.

Five minutes and some very creative swearing later - Sam’s glad their mom isn’t home; he feels like she has some kind of beacon for whenever one of them comes out with anything more vulgar than an _oh my goodness_ \- Sarah stabs the keyboard very violently, and lets out a noise that Sam decides to interpret as triumphant.

“Yes! I got the journal, fucking finally.” She turns to look at him. “You must be good luck, little bro.”

Sam always used to get annoyed when Sarah called him her little brother, which naturally meant she did it every opportunity she got. But now they’re older, it’s turned into more of an inside joke kind of thing, so he just flips her off, knowing that she won’t take him seriously. 

“I had a favour to ask you, once you’re done being a giant nerd,” he says.

She looks very unimpressed by that. “Says the guy who cried for two hours straight when the toy store didn’t have the right action figure.”

She’s going to bring that up on his deathbed, isn’t she? “I was _nine,”_ he says, putting on a pretend-defensive voice that he knows she’ll find funny. “And they had like four different Wolverines and no Rogue. Clearly I was just showing signs of being a feminist at an early age. You should be proud.”

Sarah laughs, as intended, and turns back to her screen, where her character has teleported into some kind of crystal city.

“You waste so much time on that game,” Sam points out. “I thought med students were supposed to have no time for anything but work and sleep.”

“Hah,” she says, rolling her wrist around in a circle. “Sleep, I wish. And yeah, this thing is a fucking time-sink. But I usually just grind an AFK skill while I study. Helps me feel like my entire life isn’t just school.”

That - well, half those words don’t make sense to Sam, but the sentiment behind them does.

“That’s actually what I wanted to talk to you about,” he says. 

“School? Or studying? Hey, how are finals looking?”

“I literally never want to talk about them again, thanks,” Sam says dryly. “But not that bad, I think. No, I meant your school.”

She looks confused, which is fair enough since she’s fully aware Sam is way too squeamish to ever want to be a doctor. “Okay?”

Sam thinks of the best way to ask what he wants to. “My friend Helen wants to be a doctor, and she’s getting really stressed out about how much work it’s going to be,” he says, mentally keeping his fingers crossed. “I guess I was hoping you might have some advice for her, or something.”

“Choose something else,” Sarah says darkly, and Sam opens and closes his mouth, not knowing what to say to that.

His sister usually like to make light of things that aren’t going so well in her life, so her coming out with anything as negative as that statement had been is more than a little disturbing.

She sighs. “No, sorry. Ignore me. That’s - today wasn’t the best day, is all. I was just distracting myself by killing shit, since I can’t kill anyone in my class.”

This really isn’t sounding hopeful, and Sam’s suddenly very glad that he’d decided to talk to Sarah about this first, instead of just directly introducing her to Helen. 

“What happened?” he asks, honestly worried now.

She twists her mouth into something that definitely isn’t a smile. “Oh, the usual, you know. We were having the lecture on hygiene when scrubbing up, for like the eightieth time, and some asshole made a comment to his friend about how I should shave my head if I really wanted to get clean.”

What -

“What the _fuck,”_ Sam says blankly, angry almost beyond words. “What the - seriously, how the hell could he say something like that? Did he get in trouble?”

“I don’t know who else heard him, so no,” she says, sounding more resigned than angry, which just pisses Sam off even more. “It’s the most outspoken anyone’s ever been about it, but it’s not like I haven’t seen people looking before.”

“But - we live in New York, for fuck’s sake. There have to be other black people in your class.”

“Sure,” Sarah says. “Three guys, all with short hair, and one girl with braids. Anyway, I don’t think any of them heard him say it.”

“Oh my god. I’m - I’m so sorry. That’s such fucking bullshit. Are you going to report him?”

“Fuck no,” she says. “I’m going to beat him in every exam and be a better doctor than he could ever be. Either that or I might try and grow a foot-long Afro and sit in front of him in every class.”

Sam doesn’t laugh, even though he guesses she’d been trying to lighten the mood with that last comment. He knows it’s naive of him, hell, he’s heard more than a few racist remarks even in the past week at school, but somehow he’d thought that shit like this was - not in the past, maybe, but not so obvious any more. He can’t believe that someone had the nerve to say that in earshot of Sarah. 

“Sorry,” she says. “You didn’t come here for a rant.”

“No, I - don’t apologise, Jesus.” 

She looks at him. “Is your friend black? The one that wants to go to med school?”

“What? No, she’s Asian. Korean.”

Sarah nods. “Ah. She’ll get all the comments about how she’s living up to stereotypes, and about how nice it must be for her to have all her math skills come naturally, without working for them.”

“Are all med students entitled assholes?” Sam asks, still beyond pissed off, then winces as soon as he realises how that sounds. “With obvious exceptions,” he adds, holding his hands up in apology.

Sarah sighs. “No. Not even close, honestly. Just - there’s always a few. Probably isn’t even a med school thing, though the fact that most people in my class are used to being top in everything doesn’t help.”

“Helen is kind of - I don’t know,” Sam says, realising as soon as he’s started the sentence that he hadn’t really known where he was going with it. 

Shy? She isn’t, really, not once she’s warmed up to someone. It maybe takes her a little longer to be comfortable around people than it might for others, but that’s not necessarily a bad thing. 

People have called her a pushover before, and he doesn’t think that’s true either, but she’s still -

“She’s - not the most assertive person,” he goes with, feeling bad for even saying that much.

Sarah scrunches her nose up. “I want to say that all it takes is wanting it bad enough,” she says. “And that helps. But there’s a lot of bullshit you have to get through as well.” She shrugs, like she knows that her words really aren’t what he’d wanted to hear. “Sorry. That’s all I got.”

“It’s okay,” Sam says, even though literally nothing about this conversation has made him feel any better. “Thanks for being honest.”

He isn’t going to tell Helen any of this, but he doesn’t want her to be walking into med school blind either. Maybe he can figure out a way to let her know a bit of what she might be in for without terrifying her, but he doesn’t know how.

And he knows that it isn’t his job to prepare her, hell, maybe she already knows all this shit and he’d just be wasting his time. But, well, he can’t help but worry about how his friends are going to cope after school ends and they all have to figure out how to make it in the real world. 

Or college, because Sam’s pretty sure that college still doesn’t quite count as real life.

“You looking forward to summer?” Sarah asks, maybe trying to change the subject to something a bit less stressful.

“ _Yes,”_ Sam says, then rolls his eyes when she laughs at how fervent that had sounded. “Shut up, okay, you can’t have forgotten what finals are like already.”

“I’d trade repeats of every single final if it meant I never had to do an anatomy quiz again, but sure.”

Sam decides to ignore that. “What have you got planned for the holidays?”

Sarah looks tired, yet again. “Honestly? Getting ahead on next semester’s work. But me and some girlfriends are planning a couple weekends away.”

“Cool.” Sam hesitates, but Sarah hasn’t teased him - much - about being in a relationship yet, so he decides to keep going. “Me and Bucky were hoping to have a few days away somewhere as well. Not sure where yet.”

The corner of Sarah’s mouth twitches, as though she’s restraining herself from smiling. “Aw,” she says, and it only sounds a little patronising, so Sam’s going to take it as a win. “How cute. Do you think you guys will stay together after summer?”

Sam looks up at the ceiling, really wishing that she hadn’t asked that. It’s not like it hasn’t been on his mind, but he’s been trying to ignore the thought as much as is humanly possible.

“Hopefully,” he says, because what the hell else is he supposed to say?

The thing is, he can tell that Bucky’s insecurities about how Sam is going off to college and leaving them behind - which aren’t true, but Sam can kind of understand their thought process - are just getting more and more insistent as exams get nearer.

Pretty much everyone in their year group is feeling at least some level of uncertainty about the future, obviously, but some are more sure of their path than others. And Sam is almost at a point where he’s feeling guilty for knowing what he wants to do with his life, which he knows is a ridiculous way to look at it, but he can’t help it. Bucky just keeps changing the subject any time someone asks them what they’re planning on doing next year, and even Sam doesn’t know much beyond their vague plan to find a job somewhere in the city and start saving up.

“Sorry,” Sarah says, interrupting his very unhelpful train of thought. “I shouldn’t have asked that. I’m sure you’ll be fine.”

“Yeah.” They will be. Their relationship hasn’t been flawless so far, but if it had been Sam would be second-guessing that as well. He loves Bucky, and he really doesn’t care that he won’t be able to live up to the college student stereotype of sleeping with anyone willing in the first few weeks of the semester. He’s pretty sure that’s an exaggeration, anyway. He really hopes it is. 

It’s just - a lot of couples break up in college, he’s heard that a hundred times. Is he just kidding himself, expecting his high school relationship to last? It’s his first relationship, as well, which surely makes it even less likely to be a really long term one?

Sarah kicks him. “You really need to stop thinking, “ she says, and Sam wishes it was that simple. “Que sera, sera, and all that.”

“How philosophical of you,” Sam says, standing up. “Yeah, we’ll be fine. Anyway, I’ll let you get on with killing orcs, or whatever.”

“Goblins, not orcs, and I stopped killing them past level five.” Sarah looks at him, and he promptly starts moving towards the door. “It’ll work out,” she says, and Sam hopes he isn’t imagining the certainty in her voice.

“Good talk,” he says before he lets the door close behind him. “Thanks.”

“Anytime!” she calls out, and he knows that she sort of means it - she’ll be there if he really needs her, but she has more than a few of her own problems to deal with as well.

At least someone has faith in him, and in his and Bucky's relationship.

Now if only he could figure out how to make _himself_ have that same faith.

* * *

It’s two days before Sam’s first exam, and he feels like he’s about to throw either his books or himself out of the window. 

Well, okay, that might be just a tiny bit dramatic. 

It’s still true, though, he thinks with frustration half a second later, staring down at the page of notes that had made sense an hour ago but which now look completely incomprehensible.

He really needs some kind of human interaction, he decides. Just so he knows that a world exists outside of standardised tests. 

Annoyingly, he’s alone in the house right now, so he can’t go bug any of his family into watching TV with him for a couple hours. Plus, even if they were around, they’d probably just look at him in that way that means they’re silently judging him for not spending every second he’s not asleep with his head in a textbook.

Possibly he’s projecting his own thoughts onto them.

He picks up his phone and switches it on - he keeps it off when he studies, because he has no self-control when it’s sat there beeping every few minutes right next to him. 

He could message Bucky. They’re probably feeling every bit as fed up of revision as he is - maybe even more so - and he’s sure they’d be up for hanging out. Except maybe that wouldn’t be such a good thing. Bucky hates revising, sure, but Sam doesn’t want to be the reason they don’t get any done.

He hesitates, and ends up scrolling down to Steve’s name instead, feeling sort of vaguely guilty for not messaging Bucky, and then feeling guilty for _that_ thought because Steve’s his friend, and it should be completely normal for him to want to message him. It _is_ completely normal.

Sam really needs to get out of the house.

 **hey want to go for a run?** he texts Steve before he can overthink everything all over again.

He puts his phone down and stares again at his notes, which still aren’t making sense.

He picks it up again to check the time. It’s been two minutes since he sent the text.

Maybe Steve switches his phone off for studying as well. That seems like the kind of thing he’d do. Or maybe he’s just so great at revising that his phone wouldn’t even be a distraction, maybe it’s on and he’d heard the text alert and he’s just ignoring Sam, feeling all smug because he’s going to pass all his exams and no-one else is -

Sam’s phone vibrates, and he almost drops it in his haste to open the message.

**YES you’re psychic that’s just what I need!**

Oh, thank god.

Sam jumps up and starts taking off his comfy revision clothes immediately, trying to remember if he even has any clean running gear. He doesn’t give a fuck if he doesn’t, he’d rather run in his pyjamas than spend another minute in the apartment right now.

He’s stood in his boxers when his phone vibrates again.

 _Don’t you dare be cancelling on me,_ he thinks when he sees it’s from Steve again, but it’s just a suggestion of when and where to meet, which Sam texts back a quick **sounds great** to.

He feels like he has way too much energy all of a sudden, which is weird because when he was trying to read through his notes he’d felt completely drained. Fuck, he can’t wait until finals are over.

* * *

“Dude,” Sam says, trying to catch his breath. “Break.”

Steve stops running, but as soon as he stands still he starts shifting his weight from one foot to the other, as though he’s about to take off again any second.

Sam goes over to a bench on the side of the trail, sinking down on it and staring pointedly at Steve until he comes over and sits down too.

“I don’t want my muscles to tense up,” Steve says, sounding grumpy.

“So stretch them,” Sam says, finally feeling able to say more than one word at a time. “I need to take a minute. Don’t want to pass out before finals.” He pauses, thinking that through. “Or maybe I do.”

Steve straightens his legs, then immediately tucks them back under the bench when another runner approaches. “Don’t even joke about that,” he says, in a way too serious voice. “I don’t know what I’ll do if I don’t get into college.”

Sam looks at Steve out of the corner of his eye. It’s very far from the first time he’s heard someone say something like that, especially over the last few weeks.

“You’ll be fine,” Sam says automatically, because it’s about the only thing you can say. He hates being put in this position, and he feels bad for doing the exact same thing to Sarah the other day.

“Yeah,” Steve says, sounding very unconvinced. “You good to go again?”

Sam breathes in and out, slowly. “Few more minutes. You got something to prove?”

That’s not the best thing to ask Steve, he realises after a couple more seconds. Of course the guy has shit to prove, or at least he thinks he does. Especially when it comes to any kind of physical exertion. 

“Sorry,” Sam adds before Steve can reply. “Hang on, I’ll be up again in a sec.”

He still finds it weird to think about Steve, the guy that’s been his track buddy for two years, being literally incapable of walking up a flight of stairs without having to take a pause. It’s not that he doesn’t believe Steve, or Bucky, for that matter, he’s not that much of an asshole, it’s just - there’s some kind of dissonance going on, he guesses, and he hasn’t exactly figured it out yet.

“No, it’s okay,” Steve says, leaning back against the bench. “I’m just - a bit wound up, I guess.”

“Same.” Sam laughs. “I could have kissed you when you messaged, I’ve been stuck inside trying to concentrate all day.”

He realises that mentioning kissing to a probably-straight guy wouldn’t usually be the best idea, but Steve really doesn’t have a lot of hang-ups about his sexuality, or having to prove his masculinity, or anything like that. Which is very refreshing. 

“Me too,” Steve says. “I can’t even look forward to finals being over. I can’t imagine summer ever happening.”

Sam nudges Steve. “Drama queen.”

He sees Steve smile, just a little, from the corner of his eye. “Shut up. What are your summer plans, then?”

Sam occupies himself with circling his ankles in the air, so he doesn’t have to reply immediately. It’s not like he thinks that Steve will react badly, exactly, but he feels like it’s just a bit of a weird situation all round.

Dating the best friend of one of your best friends leads to a few potential pitfalls.

“Um, well, me and Bucky were hoping to go on holiday for a few days,” he says, bending his feet back to stretch out his calves.

“That’s great,” Steve says straightaway. “Sounds, um, fun.”

Sam looks at him. Steve is horrible at hiding what he’s thinking, and he doesn’t look upset or anything right now. If anything, he maybe just looks a little embarrassed?

Oh. Sam feels his own face flushing slightly as well. Steve is probably assuming that one reason Sam and Bucky want to take a break is so that they can have some time and privacy to have sex. 

“Yeah,” Sam says, so that Steve doesn’t think it’s weird that he isn’t replying. “Not sure where yet, but I’m looking forward to it.”

It _isn’t_ an excuse for them to have sex, right? 

Sam is about ninety percent sure the answer to that is no. He trusts Bucky not to push for anything, and anyway he was the one that had suggested the holiday in the first place.

But - still.

Wouldn’t it be weird, for them to go away somewhere, presumably sleeping in the same bed, and not have sex?

Sam shrugs that thought away. It’s not a helpful one right now.

Besides, when have he and Bucky ever cared about what other people might think was weird?

“Maybe we could have a few meet-ups,” Steve says hesitantly, and Sam focuses on him again. “The whole group, I mean. Before everyone goes their separate ways.”

Sam puts an arm around Steve’s shoulders. “Duh. Of course we will. We can borrow Tony’s house again, or go to the movies. Anything, really. I’m not letting you all go.”

Steve leans into the sideways hug. “Yeah, that sounds good. I’m - I’ll really miss everyone.”

“No you won’t,” Sam says firmly. “Because we’ll all still be around. We can skype with Rhodey and Maria, and most of us will still be in New York, or at least the east coast.”

“Yeah,” Steve says, and Sam thinks he’s trying to make himself believe that.

“Seriously. We’re all going to stay friends. You just wait and see.”

Sam gets up off the bench then, and gives Steve a hand to pull himself up with. They start jogging, slowly this time, and Sam can’t help but get his mind stuck on the way he’d been reassuring Steve.

They will all stay friends, won’t they? Other friendship groups - or relationships, because that thought is never far from his mind at the moment - might not make it after high school, but theirs is different.

Isn’t it?

Sam speeds up just a little, knowing that Steve will keep pace.

It is. He’s certain of it.

He won’t let anything else be the truth.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint rolls his head around a couple times, then reaches out his hand. “Come here,” he says, and Nat shifts a little closer, taking his hand and turning it over. She loves his hands, though she’d never say it out loud - too easy for someone to make a cheap innuendo out of something like that, which would annoy her.
> 
> He has weird calluses that are pretty much permanent by now; not only does he spent at least three evenings a week practicing archery, he’s also a part-time climbing instructor at the gym where he trains. He’s taken her a few times and she loves it; the challenge of finding the perfect route, the way she needs to twist and stretch her body into new positions to reach the holds, the way every muscle in her body had been aching for hours afterwards, but in the best way possible.
> 
>  _Hey, that’s kind of what sex is like,_ Clint had said when she’d tried to explain what she was thinking, and she had promptly turned away, certain that he was about to say _so that means we should try that next, yeah?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only 2 chapters to go after this :(
> 
> No chapter-specific warnings.

* * *

“I have an idea,” Natasha says, staring at Clint in a wide-eyed way that she knows make people uneasy.

So far, though, Clint isn’t showing a single outward sign of discomfort. She hasn’t decided yet whether that annoys her, or whether it’s a good thing. She hasn’t decided on a lot of things when it comes to Clint.

“Shoot,” he says, still looking very relaxed. They’re in one of the music practice rooms, even though neither of them play an instrument. She’s found them to be a good place to escape for a bit, and this close to finals starting they’re almost empty.

“We should move in together,” she says, trying to make the statement sound as matter-of-fact as she can. 

Clint sits up straighter. “Ah - what?”

Not the perfect reaction. But she had prepared herself for much worse ones.

“It makes sense,” she says, because it _does,_ and she’s determined to make him see that. “I don’t want to live with my dad when I’m at college, but I don’t want to move into a dorm either.” That’s an understatement, actually. She already hates the thought of having to get to know all the new people in her classes; living with an unknown group as well seems like too much to deal with at once. 

“Sure,” Clint says, watching her with a careful sort of look on his face. “But why is the next logical step moving in together? Why not look for a little flat on your own? Or with Sharon, or something?”

“Sharon can’t join the NYPD until she’s twenty-one,” Nat says promptly, glad that she has an answer for that one. “She’s going to stay at home and work for a few months, and then go travelling.”

“Right. So you want, ah.”

“Us to move in together,” she repeats, hoping that Clint’s hesitation is just that, and not a sign that he’s already rejected the idea and is just trying to figure out how to let her down gently. She hates when people do stuff like that. Just say what you mean, honestly. “Clint,” she says, looking him in the eye even though that always makes her uncomfortable. “You don’t want to live with your family. And neither of us could afford a flat of our own.”

There. That’s the truth, laid out as simply as she can think to put it. Either he says yes, or he says no, and she’ll just have to work with whichever answer it turns out to be.

“We can’t afford a flat together either,” Clint says, stretching his wrists in one of his archery warm-ups. He does them unconsciously a lot; she doesn’t know if he knows that. “Not in this city, anyway.”

Right. Looks like it won’t be a simple answer. Not just yet, anyway.

“My dad was going to pay two-thirds of my rent at college,” she says, ignoring Clint’s little eye-roll. He knows that her family has money. Not nearly as much as the Starks, say, but enough that her dad could pay her rent three times over and not feel much of a loss. The one-third left over had been his idea of teaching her some financial responsibility.

“So, what? Your dad forks out the bill and I’m living off his charity? Fuck no, Nat, you must have known I’d never go for that.”

Nat sighs. Silently, because she still thinks that there has to be a way to make Clint see her point of view.

“It’s just money,” she tries, already knowing that it won’t work. “You’d be doing me a favour.”

He looks at her. “Really?” The sarcasm in his voice is very obvious, and she tries not to react to it. Outwardly, anyway.

“Is that your only issue with it?” she asks, unable to stop herself. “Or - I know we haven’t been together long.” _I know it was a weird thing to ask,_ she adds inside her head, but - since when have her and Clint cared about being weird, or about what other people would think about them?

Clint rolls his head around a couple times, then reaches out his hand. “Come here,” he says, and she shifts a little closer, taking his hand and turning it over. She loves his hands, though she’d never say it out loud - too easy for someone to make a cheap innuendo out of something like that, which would annoy her.

He has weird calluses that are pretty much permanent by now; not only does he spent at least three evenings a week practicing archery, he’s also a part-time climbing instructor at the gym where he trains. He’s taken her a few times and she loves it; the challenge of finding the perfect route, the way she needs to twist and stretch her body into new positions to reach the holds, the way every muscle in her body had been aching for hours afterwards, but in the best way possible.

 _Hey, that’s kind of what sex is like,_ Clint had said when she’d tried to explain what she was thinking, and she had promptly turned away, certain that he was about to say _so that means we should try that next, yeah?_

He’d proved her wrong, in a confusing conversation they'd had a few minutes later. He’d only meant that sex was just another activity that some people were into and some weren’t - like climbing - it had turned out. Which is exactly how she feels about it, so she had felt bad for assuming he wouldn’t understand.

Clint is good at defying her expectations. It’s one of the reasons she likes him.

The one time he’d tried to teach her how to shoot a bow hadn’t gone quite so well. Not because she’d been no good at it; she’d been alright, although the motions had been unfamiliar. She just hadn’t liked the feeling of it, how everything was focused on hitting the target and then that was it. Climbing had a goal, sure, but it was a longer one.

“You back with me?” Clint asks quietly, and she frowns down at his hand.

“Yeah,” she says, not bothering to deny that her thoughts had been miles away.

“Okay,” he says, taking a deep breath in, as though he’s gearing himself up to say something - hopefully not anything unpleasant. Maybe just something that’s difficult for him to explain. “I really like you,” he continues, linking their fingers together, laughing a little when she immediately pulls their hands apart again. “I know you know that. It’s not exactly a secret.” That’s true. She’d known Clint Barton had a crush on her almost before she’d known who on earth he was. “And I actually think we’d work well, living together, and I don’t give a fuck about about people who’d say it’s way too early.” That part - she hadn’t known that; she’d tried to guess what his reaction would be to her suggestion, but hadn’t been able to come up with any certainties.

“But?” she prompts when he falls silent again.

“We can’t afford it,” he just says again. At least that’s a practical concern; he doesn’t seem too worried about them fighting, or hating each other after spending too much time in close quarters.

“My dad is going to pay for me wherever I end up,” she says. “He fixes things with money, and he thinks I - well. You know.” Her dad _does_ think she needs fixing, she can tell, and she’s pretty sure he felt that way a long time before he and her mom announced they were splitting up. But Clint’s starting to get that look on his face again, that _are you okay?_ kind of an expression, so she doesn’t want to talk about that anymore. “If he pays half, we could get part-time jobs for the rest, maybe,” she continues quickly before Clint can interrupt with any kind of insight. “Then we’d be paying a quarter each. It would still save me money.” It’s all true. She really doesn’t want to move into college accommodation, and if she has to she’ll try to find the cheapest possible flat in New York and move into it alone.

She hopes it won’t come to that, though.

“I’ll think about it,” he says, which is better than before.

Something occurs to her then, though.

“You have to tell me if you don’t want to,” she says, making sure that her voice is as serious as it ever gets. “Promise.”

It would be so much worse than living on her own, to have them move in together and then to find out later that he’d only done it to make her happy, or something like that. She doesn’t want to have that on her conscience.

He looks at her again, with that expression that says he knows more than he lets on. “I promise,” he says, and she believes him. Clint doesn’t think hiding the truth from people is the best way to live, which she's glad of. Or at least, that’s what he believes in theory. She knows that applying that to his actual life - especially when it comes to his dad and brother making things more complicated - isn't always easy. 

Which is just one of the many reasons she thinks they should live together. She doesn’t want him to be stuck in that apartment a day longer than he absolutely has to.

“Okay,” is all she says out loud, but she links their fingers together again, smiling to herself as she sees the little chips in his nail polish. He’d asked her what her favourite colour was, and she hadn’t been able to pick just one. He’s got a nonsensical pattern going on: black then silver then red then black then green, but she bets that if she asked him to explain he’d have an elaborate reason behind every single one.

“And you’re still okay with us not really being in a relationship?” she asks, even though she knows he’s probably more than sick of that question by now.

“Hey, it has relationship in the name,” he says. Which isn’t what she’d asked. “Alright, yeah, no.” What? “I like being your friend, Nat, and I like the whole queer-platonic thing just fine, or whatever you want to call it. Seriously. I wouldn’t lie to you about that, you know I wouldn’t.”

“Good,” she says, trying to think of a way to change the subject. “Are you going to wear a dress to prom?”

Clint laughs. “Fuck me, you’re the best. And I hadn’t thought about it yet, actually. Want to hit the thrift stores tomorrow? You could rock a nice tux. Or we can both be in dresses.”

“Sure.” That sounds like fun. And she quite likes the tux idea, now that he’s put it into her head.

This whole not-dating thing is going a lot better than she’d thought it would.

* * *

The next day at school, Nat tries to find an opening to tell the whole group her plan for next year, but she can’t make it sound natural, and she could just blurt it out and let them react however they want to, but - well, she can’t figure out a way to make herself do that, either. Having friends is difficult, sometimes. She wouldn’t give them up for anything, but that doesn’t make it easy.

Finals are really the only thing on anyone’s mind right now, anyway. Maybe it would be better to wait until after exams and school are done with, then at least people will be too occupied with figuring out their own lives to get on her case about hers. Probably. Maybe.

She ends up agreeing to a study session with Sharon and Helen after school, and they take over a corner of one of the classrooms that the teachers have been letting them use for revision purposes. Nat doesn’t think this is the best plan; the three of them are all on completely different levels, academically speaking, and they’re not even taking similar subjects, but she doesn’t really want to go back to her dad’s apartment just yet so she agrees with Helen’s suggestion before she's really thought it through.

It turns out she can’t concentrate on revision, though, not with her and Clint’s conversation from yesterday still turning itself over in her brain.

Sharon is muttering various swear words and other phrases under her breath as she looks at her phone. Some of them are very creative; Nat particularly approves of _I bet the headmaster reads this before he goes to bed every night._

Natasha looks over Sharon’s shoulder to see what’s brought on her irritation, rolling her eyes when she sees the website Sharon’s looking at.

“I will never forgive Peggy for showing you that trashsite,” she says, scowling at the Daily Mail logo. “Please stop giving it traffic.”

“Know your enemy,” Sharon says absentmindedly, screwing her entire face up as she scrolls down. “Oh, Jesus. Helen, there’s an article about Korean beauty products. How much are we betting that it’s all incredibly racist.”

“I don’t know what you’re looking at,” Helen says, not glancing up from her textbook for even a second. “But I would not take that bet.”

“The Daily Mail,” Natasha says, trying to inject her voice with as much venom as she can. “It’s the worst British thing since - I don’t even know. Voldemort?”

Helen sighs, and Nat starts to feel a little bad for distracting her from revising. “Okay, I’ll bite,” Helen says, keeping her textbook open but stopping reading for now. “What does it say?”

Sharon starts reading. “It looks like they’re trying to advertise a British store by claiming that they’ve stolen all these amazing anti-ageing techniques from South Korea.”

“Sounds familiar,” Helen says. “I’m curious now.” She moves closer to Sharon so that she can read along, and almost as soon as she’s started her eyebrows go up in a very amusing way. 

“I told you,” Sharon says, sounding mildly disgusted. “Listen to this. ‘Korean products often closer resemble a toddler's play-thing than game-changing beauty buys.’ I literally can’t imagine a more patronising sentence.”

“I mean, they’re not entirely wrong about everything,” Helen says, reaching out to scroll further down. “Korean skincare is great. But, oh my god. I’m not sure whether I should be more offended at the terrible psuedo-science claims or at the fact that they’re basically fetishising my entire country.” She rolls her eyes as she reads more. “No, definitely the science. PatcH2O? What on earth?”

“You should write one of those science columns where you debunk all the myths about cosmetics,” Natasha says, because that’s something she would definitely read, and these days whenever Helen talks about her goals for the future no-one else in the group really understands half the things she’s referencing.

“I can’t write that well,” Helen points out, and Natasha frowns. That’s a small detail.

“You can learn to.”

Sharon glances at her, with that amused-but-trying-not-to-show-it face on that always annoys Natasha.

“Anyway,” Natasha says, deciding that it’s time for a subject change. “I have news.”

Sharon finally puts her phone down. “What’s up?”

“Me and Clint are going to rent somewhere together next year. I’ve already started looking for apartments.”

That’s technically true, if googling _average rent in NYC_ and then promptly closing the tab as soon as it loads counts as _looking._ They have time still, okay, and now that Clint’s on the lookout as well - in theory, anyway - they’ll find somewhere. 

They kind of have to find somewhere, because once Natasha’s set her heart on something she really hates making back-up plans.

Sharon and Helen exchange a glance which Natasha refuses to interpret as _worried._

“That’s - a big step,” Helen says, sounding unsure.

Sharon looks hesitant, but opens her mouth anyway. “How would you even afford that?”

That’s a perfectly reasonable question, and Nat is very glad that she has an answer to it.

“My dad was going to help me out with rent for college anyway. He’s agreed to pay half, and we’re going to get part-time jobs for the rest.” 

She’s deliberately leaving out just how long it had taken her to persuade her dad that yes, this was what she honestly wanted to do, and no, Clint wasn’t going to break up with her the second she’d helped him find a decent apartment. That was a very insulting way to think, she’d pointed out, and eventually her dad had just given up. And given in, with a strict but vague warning for her to pass onto Clint about all the shady connections the Romanovs still had in Russia.

She had chosen to ignore that, since she’d already won her main battle.

“Good for you,” Helen says, still not sounding very convinced. “But, um. Don’t you want to experience dorm life? Isn’t that supposed to be a big part of college?”

Nat shrugs, not making eye contact with Helen. “I don’t like people that much,” she says, knowing that Helen and Sharon will understand that she isn’t talking about them. Well, they’re people, obviously, but she knows them already. It’s completely different. “It’s going to be enough to get used to with all the new classes and societies and things. Would be nice to have some quiet at - at home.”

 _Home._ She doesn’t feel like she has one of those at the moment, not really. She’s skyped her mom in Russia, seen her new house over there, and she’s grateful to have her dad’s Queens apartment to live in. But neither of those places feel even a little like home, and she doubts they ever will.

And she’d prefer not to go through the next who-knows-how-many years feeling that way. She still isn’t quite sure she belongs in the US, on her bad days, and about a hundred other factors contribute to her feeling just a little out of place wherever she goes; figuring out that she’s asexual is just the latest in a long list. 

So if she has the chance to give herself a tiny bit of stability or comfort in a world that refuses to stop changing around her, she really doesn’t think anyone should be begrudging her that. She scowls down at the desk, wishing that she could figure out a way to put that into words without sounding completely pathetic.

“Can I come stay sometimes?” Sharon says unexpectedly, and Natasha lifts her head up again. “It’s going to be weird living with my folks still, when you’re all moving out.”

Natasha smiles. “Of course you can.” That’s one person on her side, then. She’d known she could count on Sharon, deep down. It’s just nice to have confirmation.

“My neighbour works in real estate,” Helen offers. “And I tutored her kids last year, they wouldn’t have passed bio without it. So she owes me a favour. I could see if she has any tips about flat-hunting.”

“Cool,” Natasha says, wincing as soon as it’s left her mouth. “I mean - thanks, Helen. That’s really great of you.”

Helen flashes her a quick grin, already looking like her mind’s back in her textbook. “No worries. That’s what friends are for, right?”

She turns back to her studying, and Natasha looks down at her notes as well, though more to make herself look busy than because she thinks she’ll actually take any of them in.

 _That’s what friends are for._

She hadn’t had many friends when she was younger. Kids hadn’t exactly bullied her, mainly because whenever someone had tried she would stare blankly at them, not reacting at all until the shouts of _creepy_ or _robot_ started up.

But they had - isolated her, maybe. Or possibly she’d done that herself, she isn’t sure. She knows that she has a tendency to distance herself from people as some kind of self-defence thing - push them away before they can push _her_ away, or whatever - and it’s definitely possible that something along those lines had been in play even when she was a kid.

Not that the other students have any excuse for calling her a robot, of course. Not to mention the headmistress of her junior school, who had told Natasha’s parents - very apologetically, very politely, of course - that _well, she does seems a little emotionless, don’t you think? Have you ever considered that she might be -_

Natasha glares at her chem notes. Having a hard time expressing emotions sometimes doesn’t mean someone doesn’t _have_ any. For fuck’s sake. People can be so clueless.

She has her friends now, anyway, and no matter how stressful having them can get sometimes, she’s not giving them up. Not without a hell of a fight.

* * *

“Queer-platonic relationship,” she says to Sam, watching his face carefully. He doesn’t look anything but mildly confused, though.

It’s a few days since she told Helen and Sharon about her plans for next year, and she’s managed to tell the rest of the group since then. They haven’t taken it badly, which is good, but it _has_ had the annoying side-effect of making them all very curious about exactly how serious her relationship with Clint is.

She guesses that because the two of them are never physically affectionate in public, people had assumed that they didn’t care about each other that much. Which is ridiculous, obviously. Of all the ways to measure how well a relationship is going, why on earth should how much you _touch_ each other be a factor?

“Okay,” Sam says slowly. “Queer-platonic - so you’re both - no, actually, can you just explain it? I feel like I’m going to screw it up if I guess.”

“Well, you know I’m asexual,” she says, and he nods. She takes a quick breath in. “I think I’m homoromantic as well.”

She still isn’t sure about that part, really. How are you supposed to tell when you want to be with someone as opposed to when you just like them in a friendship kind of way? Is there some weird invisible line that you cross over at a certain point? Or a helpful checklist? No, there is not, so she doesn’t actually know how she’s supposed to figure that one out.

She _does_ know that she can picture herself in a relationship with a woman a lot more easily than she can with a man. It’s very annoying that Clint happens to be a guy.

Sam looks like he’s thinking hard. “Okay,” he says. “So - um, so you’re gay, romantically speaking?”

She can work with that. “Sure. I’m romantically gay, if you want to put it like that.” Sounds like a fifties musical number, but whatever. Not the point. “But I also like Clint. In a different way to how I like, say, you.”

“Right.” Sam is looking less confused, but not much. She isn’t even sure why he’s the first person she’s telling about this, except - he’s kind of her best friend, except for Sharon, and she just wants to know how someone will react to it.

“So we’re not technically in a romantic relationship,” she continues. “But we’re partners anyway. Queer-platonic relationship. Soon to be sharing a flat. It’s not that complicated, really.”

Well, that last part might not be entirely true, but Sam’s hardly new to unconventional relationships. He’ll figure it out.

“I think I get you,” he says. “Thanks for telling me, Nat.”

“Sure,” she says easily, glad that he hadn’t asked anything along the lines of _is Clint okay with that?_ She can ask those things; she doesn’t want anyone outside of her-and-Clint to start. “You’re my friend.”

Sam smiles at her then, and she smiles back automatically. “Anyway,” she says, feeling like they’ve been on this topic long enough. “Do you think the Wonder Woman movie is going to be good?”

“It better had be, after Batman vs Superman,” Sam says. “They can’t afford to keep fucking up. Or, well, they probably _can_ afford it, but that doesn’t mean it would be a good idea.”

“I just hope there are no boob plates in sight.”

Sam looks at her with his eyebrows raised. “Um, what?”

“Boob plates, you know.” She mimes cupping her chest, then punches Sam - gently - when he laughs at her. “You know! Like a chestplate but shaped like boobs. I read a really good article the other week about how they would actually kill a real-life warrior wearing it.”

Sam stops laughing, finally. “Ah, yeah, I know what you mean. They look weird as well.”

That’s good news. “Thank you! I thought they were supposed to be attractive and that I just - wasn’t getting the memo, or something.”

Sam scrunches up his nose. “I really don’t think they look good. And even if they did, knowing that whoever’s wearing them is at risk of death would kind of ruin it for me.”

She’d known Sam would agree with her. “You should be a comic-book artist.”

“Um, have you seen my attempts at drawing? Get Steve to change his career plans, he’d be great at that.”

Nat sighs. She really doesn’t like Steve’s life goals - which mostly seem to be to earn as much money as he can, doing a job he’ll almost certainly hate - but she recognises that as someone who in theory would never have to work a day in her life, it really isn’t her place to say anything to him. 

But she really, really wants to.

Sam knows Steve better than she does, at least. Maybe he could talk to him?

“He’s still set on being some kind of businessman, isn’t he?” she says, knowing that the answer is _yes_ just from Sam’s expression.

“Maybe he won’t hate it,” Sam says, sounding more unconvincing than he had that time he tried to play devil’s advocate in a discussion about Emma Frost’s costumes.

Nat tries to put her thoughts into some kind of sentence. “I just - I don’t like the idea of people doing something they won’t like.”

Sam sighs. “Yeah, well, me neither. But it’s his life. And maybe he’ll get to college and figure out he wants to do something different, anyway. Bucky still doesn’t know what their plans are. We don’t have to have everything figured out right this second.”

“True,” Nat says. She doesn’t, really. She knows what subjects she’s most interested in, but she has absolutely no idea how she might make them fit into a career of any kind. “Oh, how are you and Bucky doing?” she remembers to ask.

Sam hesitates for a moment before replying, which seems like it might be a bad sign. “We’re good,” he says, rolling his eyes when he sees her raised eyebrow - she’s got very good at moving one without the other; she’s practiced it in the mirror. “No, we are. Things were maybe a bit rocky for a few weeks, but I think everything’s okay now.”

“You really like them, don’t you?”

Sam’s smile is answer enough.

Nat can still remember when she’d first figured out that Sam had a crush on Bucky. It hadn’t been some huge revelation, or anything; she’d just watched them together, and then brought up Bucky around Sam and watched his reactions. She doesn’t know if she was the first person in their friendship group to figure it out, though she’d like to think so.

And then a while later she’d realised that it looked like it was turning into more than just a crush. She’d been a bit worried that she would lose her friend, but her fears - which she hadn’t quite managed to voice to anyone - hadn’t come true. Sure, Sam doesn’t have quite as much time to hang out with her after school as he had done last year, but that’s okay. They have a lot of classes together, and Sam’s already made a point of insisting that they’ll spend time together when they’re both at NYU next year. If they get in, of course. Which they will, because she has no back-up plan for if they don't.

One thing that bothers her is that she still doesn’t know Bucky as well as she’d like to, really. They talk sometimes, and she gave them a birthday card with eighteen different coloured paint streaks on it. But their conversations are usually surface-level; they swap school news or complain about how hellish finals are going to be. Pretty much everything she knows about them comes from Sam; which is fine, she’s Sam’s friend first - but she’d like to get to know Bucky as well. Properly. Especially before they all leave school and start going their separate ways, which she doesn’t really want to think about right now.

Maybe she should invite Bucky round the next time Sam comes over to her place. Except then she might feel like a bit of a third wheel, and she feels out-of-place enough at school already; she could do without that feeling at home as well. Clint could round too? Except that would feel like a double date, which actually might be fun, but not at her dad’s apartment - which Clint really, really doesn’t like; he says it feels like he’s going to get shouted at for sitting on the furniture, and since _she_ hates it when he says stuff like that, they just try and meet up somewhere that isn’t either of their homes, like Clint’s gym.

“Earth to Nat,” Sam says, waving his hand in front of her face. She catches it and moves it away easily.

“I was just thinking,” she says, trying not to sound defensive. 

“I know. All good.” Sam’s hard to annoy, really; she’s pretty lucky that he somehow decided he wanted to be her friend. “I was just wondering if you wanted to grab something to eat?”

“Sure,” she says, still thinking about her earlier plan. She could invite Sharon over as the fourth person, maybe? “Not pizza.” Except then if Nat and Sam were talking to each other, that would leave Bucky and Sharon on their own, and she doesn’t think those two get on as well as, say -

“Steve,” she says out loud, ignoring Sam’s probably confused expression. Yes, Steve would be good. She gets on with him, and no matter which way you divide up the four of them, every pair would have something to talk about. 

“I’m going to assume you don’t mean you want to eat Steve,” Sam says in a very amused voice. “Froyo?”

“Sounds great,” she says, and Sam doesn’t need to know that she’s mostly answering her own thoughts.

* * *

Later, back at her dad’s place - it really isn’t home, and she’s tried to imagine a way in which it might be, someday, but keeps coming up blank - she looks up apartments again.

Christ. She’d heard about how expensive New York was, obviously, but she’d never really thought to look up exactly what _expensive_ meant. Or she’d assumed that people were talking about Manhattan, and that so long as you weren’t on the island everything would be fine.

That really does not seem to be true. She scrolls through another page - that one’s okay, but it’s _tiny,_ she doesn’t want them to get under each other’s feet. She needs her own space.

Clint’s already sorted on the job front, which is mostly good but also a little annoying. He’s going to take a couple more tests and then he can be a full-time instructor in both climbing and archery, which he’ll love. He’s great with kids, especially kids that feel insecure about trying something new. Nat personally thinks that he should stick with teaching and not go after the whole Olympic thing, but she isn’t going to say that to him. Or, well. Not in so many words, anyway.

Her job-hunting is going to be a lot trickier. She’s going to have to work around studying three subjects _and_ adjusting to college life. Which all sounds like a lot of work. Not that - she’ll do it, obviously. She ignores the tiny twinge of fear that tries to make itself known - _will she really? Maybe she’ll collapse and fall apart and end up getting sent to Russia to live with her mom_ \- and decides to figure out that bridge when it’s right in front of her.

Apartments first. 

She glances to the side of her laptop, where a large pile of books and folders is lying. 

Okay, fine. Finals first. Then flat-hunting. Then job-hunting. And settling into college. And doing college-level assignments. And - no. 

She can do this. Nothing to worry about. 

Her phone buzzes, and she turns it over to check that it isn’t anything important. It’s a message from Clint, and even though all it says is **how did i manage to burn pasta?! :(** it makes her smile anyway. 

**Looks like we’ll be ordering a lot of takeout next year,** she sends back, and gets a smiley face in reply. 

She turns her phone back over and picks up her latest math test, suddenly feeling actually confident instead of the fake-confident that she’s very good at projecting. 

She _can_ do this. She just has to take it one step at a time. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Even though I identify a lot with Nat here, this was a weirdly tricky POV to write from for me and I'm not 100% happy with this chapter. But it ties up a few loose ends, especially with Clint, so I did want to keep it in. Feedback/concrit is very welcome!!
> 
> By the way, I'm kind of going with DC and the Marvel X-Men universe being the big superhero-type franchises in this AU. Most other media things are the same too (Star Wars, Harry Potter etc), just obviously the MCU doesn't exist. Because that would be horrendously meta and I would tie myself in knots trying to figure that out. 
> 
> The Daily Mail article is real, my Korean roommate found it mostly amusing but I figured Helen as a science enthusiast might be extra annoyed (disclosure: I'm not even remotely a scientist, I looked up PatcH2O and it didn't look very convincing but correct me if it's good and I'll edit!).
> 
> Last two chapters coming up hopefully before November 1st. Thanks to everyone commenting along, I reread them all last night and it was the best feeling!


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> These are the friends they want to keep for life. This eclectic, eccentric little group of people who have hardly anything in common on the surface, who might have been brought together by something as banal as trying to survive high school intact, but who over time have formed into something that’s so much more than that.
> 
> Bucky doesn’t want to lose this.
> 
> Any of it, they think, looking at Sam and smiling at the light in his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, wow. First of all, thank you all for over 100 kudos!! Before it's even finished, as well! This is the second-to-last chapter, and unbelievably this fic has ended up being over 100k. I had pictured maybe 30k when I started writing this, I blame all of you lovely people (<3) and also Sam and Bucky. I just didn't want to let go of them! Seriously, I have loved writing this, I'm very proud of it, and I'm looking forward to writing a sequel sometime next year.
> 
> Hope you enjoy this chapter!
> 
> No chapter-specific warnings.

* * *

Bucky flexes their hand before picking up their pen. They honestly feel like they never want to write another word in their life. Especially not by hand - seriously, isn’t it time to upgrade? They bet that whoever has the joyless task of marking thousands of identical high school papers could live without the added difficulty of trying to decipher the various handwriting fuck-ups of teenagers.

But it’s their English Lit final, and it’s their last exam - maybe ever, depending on if they decide to go to college, which is a very weird thought - so they ignore the high probability they’re giving themself minor repetitive strain injury, and look at the first question.

Which is on pathetic fallacy. 

They smile down at the paper, not caring if the invigilators think they’re a complete weirdo for it. 

They can do this. They haven’t covered this topic much recently, sure, but Bucky had actually looked it up for themself after a conversation with Sam. So they’re pretty sure they know what they’re talking about, for once.

It’s a good feeling.

* * *

As soon as Bucky leaves the room, Sam is right there, throwing his arms around them.

“We made it! Look out, world!”

Bucky laughs, returning the hug - not even looking around to see who’s watching, because they won’t ever have to see most of these people again anyway after a few more days - and just enjoying the feeling of not having anything to dread for the first time in -

God. Weeks, definitely, and months would probably be accurate as well.

“We made it,” they say into Sam’s neck, knowing that they maybe didn’t get top marks in anything, maybe didn’t even pass a couple of papers - but that doesn’t even feel that important anymore, not when they have a whole summer of hanging out with Sam and their friends to look forward to.

And after summer, well. They aren’t going to worry about that now; this is supposed to be a happy moment, and they’re determined not to be the one that ruins that.

“What should we do to celebrate?” Sam asks, finally letting go.

“Sleep?” Bucky says, only half-joking. They’ve not had a decent night’s rest in - they actually can’t remember how long it’s been, which is more than a bit worrying.

Sam rolls his eyes. “We can sleep all summer if we want to. Ooh, we should go back to Coney Island.”

That sort of sounds fun. And nostalgic, and romantic, and why isn’t Bucky saying yes already?

“It’s pretty hot out,” they say, kicking themself already for not just agreeing. “Everything’s going to smell like garbage.”

Sam shrugs. “You’re living in the wrong city if that bugs you. But sure, we can do something else.”

“Movie?” Bucky suggests, because they don’t want to say _actually, I kind of just want to go home and curl up in bed and think about how I have no idea what I want to do with the rest of my life._

Or they _do_ want to say it, they just don’t want Sam to hear it. Which makes no sense.

“Yes! I still haven’t seen X-Men Apocalypse,” Sam says, sounding every bit as enthusiastic as when he’d suggested Coney Island. Bucky feels like the worst person in the world. They should be so happy right now. Finals are done with; they know they won’t be anywhere near top marks but they think they’ve done alright. They can look forward to a summer hanging out with their partner and their friends.

So why aren’t they feeling anything but numb? Numb and very, very tired, they think, keeping their fingers crossed that they don’t fall asleep in the middle of the movie.

Maybe they just need to give it some time. It hasn’t really sunk in for them that exams are over yet; they probably just need to wait a couple of days or something.

They really hope that’s all it is.

* * *

Bucky frowns as they realise they’ve been added to yet another group chat on Facebook. They’re in way too many already; they get that it’s an easy way for people to talk to just two or three other people in the friendship group without spamming the chat that has all nine of them, but they really can’t be bothered with keeping track of that many conversations.

It’s just them, Sam, Steve, and Nat - who’s the one who started the chat in the first place, it looks like. 

It’s been a few days since their last final, and they haven’t been spending time with anyone other than Sam and Steve; a few people still have exams to go, and mostly everyone is just looking forward to next week, when they have their official graduation and - of course - the prom.

They really can’t guess what Nat wants.

 **Sam:** hey all, what’s up Nat?

 **Natasha:** D &D planning session for our first campaign of the summer tonight you’re all invited

Bucky is kind of confused by that; they get why Nat would want Sam to help, but them and Steve?

 **Steve:** I’m free but I don’t know how much help I’d be?

 **Natasha:** You can draw concept art come on Rogers don’t be a square

Who the hell says things like _square_ in 2016? 

**Sam:** well i’m in i have been saving up ideas for months

 **Natasha:** Yay. Sam already has 5 points

 **Steve:** There are points now?

 **Natasha:** Invoke competitive instincts in order to make everyone do your bidding

 **Natasha:** Obviously

 **Steve:** Okay....

Bucky gets another notification, this one just from Sam.

 **Sam:** hey you ok? xx

 **Bucky:** oh yeah all good was just a bit confused to be invited

Sam is typing for a while, so Bucky opens up Tumblr, checking that no-one’s sent them any new messages. They haven’t, which isn’t surprising; their posts haven’t exactly been frequent over the last few weeks.

 **Sam:** i feel like she invited you for me. and steve so that you have someone to talk to while me and her are nerding out

That’s - definitely a strong possibility, actually, and Bucky isn’t going to ask Nat if it’s the right one, but they have a feeling that at the very least there’s some truth to it.

 **Bucky:** stop being good at reading people  <3 hang on

They go back to the original chat. There’s only one new message, from Steve.

 **Steve:** But anyway yes I can come :) I’ll bring some art stuff

 **Bucky:** i’m in too. thanks nat. 

Something occurs to them then.

 **Bucky:** i haven’t actually been to your new place though i’ll need directions

 **Sam:** i have, just meet me outside bedford ave station and we can head there together

 **Sam:** same to you Steve

 **Steve:** Great! What time Nat?

 **Natasha:** My dad’s out all weekend so I have the apartment to myself. You can come whenever

 **Sam:** let’s say we meet at 4 then? should be at yours about 4.30-5 then Nat

 **Natasha:** ::::[[[[ 

**Steve:** Yes to Sam, ??? to Nat

 **Sam:** It’s a spider dude

Bucky raises one eyebrow, and sends Sam a question mark in their private chat.

 **Sam:** 8 eyes 8 legs! Nat loves making up oldschool emoticons 

Of course she does.

 **Bucky:** naturally. ok i’m going to take a shower but see you later xxx

 **Sam:** :D xxx

Bucky goes back to the group chat once again.

 **Bucky:** see you later all, thanks for the invite Nat

 **Steve:** See you!!

 **Natasha:** \\(^o^)/

Bucky decides not to ask. They take a deep breath in. Things have been fine since exams finished. Not great, not terrible. Just - yeah, _fine._ Maybe an evening hanging out with people is just what they need to tip the balance over the line into _good_ territory. That would be nice, especially since they know Sam knows they’re feeling kind of off at the moment, and it’s all too confused in their head right now for them to want to actually talk about it.

It’s not like there’s anything to talk about, is the thing. Nothing in particular is making them feel this way, except maybe a vague sort of existential dread about the future, which is most likely normal for anyone that’s just finished high school.

They don’t want to ask Sam if he’s feeling that way as well. The answer would either be yes or no, and Bucky isn’t sure which thought scares them more.

The deep breaths thing hadn’t really worked to calm their mind down, but it had let them know that they’re probably overdue for a shower. At least getting up and doing that - as well as some laundry, maybe, Becca’s latest hobby involves way too many paint stains for Bucky’s liking, so they can throw their few things in with whatever pile of her clothes is waiting - will make them feel kind of like a productive human being.

Taking a fucking shower and washing some clothes shouldn’t be enough to make them feel like they’ve accomplished something significant, really, but they’ll take any little victories right now.

* * *

Nat’s dad’s new apartment is very - spartan, Bucky thinks might be the word. It could almost be an entry in one of those bland interior design magazines, the ones where everything is shades of cream with metal accents; where anything personal has to be hidden away behind fancy cabinet doors so that it doesn’t disrupt the minimalism or some shit like that.

Bucky looks down at the snacks they brought along, and quickly decides that they aren’t even going to open the Doritos. The image of getting orange dust on the off-white sofa doesn’t bear thinking about. Nat’s dad is fucking scary sometimes, and they’d rather not have to explain why they’d ruined a probably horrifically expensive piece of furniture.

Nat leads the three of them straight into what must be her bedroom, though, instead of staying in the living room. Bucky looks around, already feeling about a thousand times more comfortable. It isn’t that different from Sam’s room, in a way, although Sam’s comics and figurines and stuff are spread out neatly around the room, whereas Nat’s are mostly piled up in half-open boxes.

“You still haven’t unpacked?” Steve asks her, frowning a little as he looks round at the mess.

“No point,” Nat says lightly, sitting at one end of her bed. “I’m moving out at the beginning of July.”

Sam sits down on the other side of the bed, leaning back against the wall and looking completely at ease. “You didn’t tell me you found somewhere,” he says, throwing a cushion at Nat.

She catches it with zero effort. “Well, we were all busy trying not to lose our minds,” she points out, and Bucky tries to keep any kind of expression off their face when they think about just how fucking accurate that statement is for them. Some days, at least.

“Where is it?” Steve asks, taking a seat on Nat’s desk chair.

That leaves Bucky with the beanbag, which they sink into more than a little awkwardly. It’s comfy as hell, but they feel weird being so much lower down than everyone else. They’re near the end of the bed Sam’s sitting on, so they have to crane their neck up to even make eye contact with him.

“Bed-Stuy,” Nat says, reaching over to her desk and grabbing her laptop. “Here, I’ll show you the pictures. It’s basically one big apartment with a wall built in the middle to make two small ones, but it’s not bad.”

They all look over her shoulder. She’s right, it’s not that bad. It could be cleaner - and if it looks like that from the photos, Bucky imagines it’s a lot worse in person - but at least that’s fixable.

“Nice,” Sam says. “I can’t believe you and Clint are going to be homeowners.”

Nat rolls her eyes. “Home- _renters._ And me neither, really. But it’s a good decision. I think.”

“I think so too,” Bucky says, meaning it. They can’t help but remember Valentine’s Day, and how without the rain they would never even have known Clint was hurt.

Sam sits back on the bed. “Yeah, yeah. Very adult of you. Now, can we get to the important issues of the day? We need to find a way to make sure Tony doesn’t cheat again.”

“He technically wasn’t cheating,” Steve points out. “He rolled a twenty. He was well within his rights to summon a thunder god.”

“To obliterate his _teammates?”_ Sam says. “I don’t think so. No invoking of gods.”

“You don’t even know where this campaign is set,” Nat says, dragging a very large ring-binder out from under her bed.

Sam shrugs. “Gods can show up anywhere, technically,” 

Bucky lets out a low whistle. “Wow, Nat. I don’t think I did that much prep for all my finals put together.” That might actually not be an overstatement, they think as they watch her flip through pages of scribbled notes and complex-looking diagrams.

“Is that the portal from the game we played at Tony’s?” Steve asks, looking at the page upside-down. “The one that Maria went into and never returned from?”

“Maybe,” Nat says, scowling at the scribbled picture.

Sam looks too. “It definitely is,” he says. “Are we rescuing Maria? Because I just have to say, I feel like she would be pretty terrible at playing the damsel in distress.”

“Seconded,” Bucky says, grinning at Sam. God, this is _fun._ They hadn’t really been expecting to have a good time, but they’re so glad they came in the end.

“If you would all stop trying to predict my completely unpredictable campaign,” Nat says, handing Steve a small pile of papers. “We could actually get something done. Rogers, you can sketch away at those if you want. I tried to give detailed descriptions.”

“Aren’t you in art class with him?” Bucky asks. “How come you didn’t draw anything already?”

Steve looks up from the papers. “Nat’s style is less, um. Realistic? Than mine is.”

“And eighty times more disturbing,” Sam adds. Nat doesn’t look at all bothered by that assessment.

“Right,” Bucky says, remembering that blood-covered ballet shoe Steve had shown them in the art room one time. “Um, what am I supposed to do?”

They still know almost nothing about Dungeons and Dragons. They’d made it through the last game - campaign, whatever - with a lot of bluffing, guesswork, and one very lucky roll of the dice.

“Moral support,” Sam says, laughing when Bucky throws a pencil at him.

Nat looks up. “You can sort these into plot order,” she says, giving them a pile of postcard-sized bits of paper, all with scribbled bullet-points on them.

“I’m not sure I can, actually,” Bucky says as they read the first two. One involves a tree coming to life and having an existential crisis. The next has something to do with a sword that can only be wielded by someone with a certain kind of magic, but Nat’s handwriting becomes incomprehensible before they can work out what kind exactly.

“I have faith in you,” Nat says absent-mindedly. “Now, Sam. I want to work on the history of the nine kingdoms. Stop me if you think it’s getting too complex.”

Bucky meets Sam’s eyes and tries to hold back their smile. They have a feeling that Nat’s plots are always overly complicated, and that it’s Sam who reins her in so that the rest of their group can - more-or-less, anyway - follow along.

They don’t really give a fuck what they’re doing; sorting cards, getting people drinks, sharpening Steve’s pencils. It’s just nice to be here. 

To be included.

* * *

“See you at graduation!” Sam calls over his shoulder, and Bucky looks back to see Nat and Steve smiling back at them. The two of them are going to work out best how to fit Steve’s art into the game, but Sam and Bucky had decided to duck out a bit early and grab something to eat before they have to head home.

“I can’t believe we’re graduating,” Bucky says, completely truthfully. Well, they can believe everyone _else_ is graduating easily enough. But it’s harder to picture it happening to them, somehow.

They’ve never been very good at holding themself to the same standards as everyone else.

“I can’t believe school’s over,” Sam says, taking Bucky’s hand as they walk to the station.

“Same thing.”

Sam looks at them. “Well, kind of. I just - I can’t believe there’s some people I’ll never see again. It’s so weird. You see someone five days a week for years, and then they aren’t even part of your life anymore.”

Bucky squeezes Sam’s hand. “Yeah, true.” 

Sam’s a lot more popular than they are, and they don’t mean that in any kind of self-deprecating way. It’s just a fact. There are few people - if any - that don’t like Sam, and he’s the kind of person who’s good at remembering little details about people. Bucky usually ignores most of the students that aren’t directly in their social circle.

So it makes sense, that Sam’s feeling more nostalgic about school than they are. Bucky definitely doesn’t believe that _best days of your life_ bullshit; that had better not turn out to be true. But school had been a good experience for Sam, overall, and Bucky isn’t sure they can say the same.

Of course, they don’t even want to think about not having Sam, or their friends, so it was definitely worth it.

But it was a mixed blessing, at best, and they’re glad that it will be over soon.

* * *

Graduation day dawns with clear skies and a temperature that would be too high even if they were all in t-shirts. In their heavy gowns and hats, it’s close to unbearable.

“Fuck this,” Bucky mutters to no-one, twisting the sash round their shoulders in an attempt to make it look like everyone else’s. Maybe they put it on backwards, or something. They don’t really care enough to figure it out, except they know their mom is already sat down waiting, camera at the ready, and they’re fully aware that this might be the only graduation of theirs that she’ll ever get to experience.

They settle the sash further back, and smooth it down. There. That doesn’t look too terrible. Now they just have to get through a few more hours of wearing a grey sack that’s making their entire body overheat. 

“Barnes,” comes a voice from behind them, and Bucky turns round automatically, to see -

Oh, hell. Not now. For fuck’s sake; today and their prom night are - hopefully - the last times Bucky’s ever going to have to see half these people again, why couldn’t it all go by peacefully?

They should have known better than to expect that.

“Can I talk to you?” Rumlow says, and the _no_ is less than a second from leaving Bucky’s mouth when they actually look at him properly. What they see makes them bite the word back, because - he looks terrible, okay, and Bucky really, really doesn’t want to feel any kind of sympathy for the guy, but it’s hard not to when he looks like it’s been a week since he slept.

“Why on earth would you want to talk to me?” they say instead, making sure not to drop their guard for a second. For all they know, Garrett - or another member of Rumlow’s little gang; they aren’t even sure how many there are these days - is waiting out of sight, ready to ambush Bucky.

It’s not paranoid if they’ve already fucking attacked you, right?

“I know you’re pissed at me,” Rumlow says, holding his hands up. Bucky suddenly feels like they have to choke down a laugh. They aren’t actually scared at all, they realise. Just - confused, and, yeah, still kind of angry.

“Oh? You mean because your buddy almost broke my nose? Or because you threatened to out my boyfriend?” Bucky still gets a little thrill from saying that word, though they hope that doesn’t show on their face. “Or maybe because of all the shit you’ve called me over the past two fucking years?”

Rumlow looks very uncomfortable. Bucky can’t bring themself to feel anything other than pleased at that. “I didn’t tell Garrett to hit you,” he mutters, but since he can’t exactly deny the rest of it, Bucky really doesn’t give a fuck about that one thing.

“What do you want?” they ask again, not caring if they’re being rude. Rumlow deserves a hell of a lot more than a few less-than-polite words. Bucky isn’t about to punch the guy, or anything, but they don’t exactly want to fake an interest in whatever he wants to say to them.

“It’s about my brother.”

What the fuck? Bucky knows absolutely nothing about Rumlow’s family, and nor do they want to. Except - he’d said that his brother went to school with Sam’s sister, hadn’t he? So they guess he’s training to be a doctor.

Jesus; they hope he’s a nicer guy than Rumlow, otherwise his patients aren’t in for a great time.

“Well, we’re supposed to be getting ready for the ceremony,” Bucky points out, hoping that they’re managing to get across just how little they want to have whatever conversation this is right now.

“They’re running late,” Rumlow says dismissively. 

Of course they are. This fucking school, seriously. 

Bucky gives up. It’s not like Rumlow’s going to deck them in the middle of a crowd, and they feel like they’ll be able to ignore whatever bullshit he comes out with today. So long as it’s not about Sam, which it doesn’t sound like it is. “Fine,” they say, making sure to sound as fed-up as humanly possible. “What is it?”

“My brother, um.” Rumlow looks - _nervous_ is really not an expression Bucky ever expected to be associating with him, but they can’t think of anything that would fit better. “He came out to me and my dad last week,” Rumlow continues. Shit. Bucky’s already feeling sorry for this guy, who they’ve never met in their life. “He’s - pansexual, or whatever. That sounds made up to me.” Oh, for fuck’s sake. “Anyway, my dad kicked him out. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.”

 _Maybe not call his sexuality made-up, that might be a start,_ Bucky thinks, but they don’t say it out loud yet. They’re trying to process a few different things at once, but there’s one question that they really want to get out of the way first.

“And what exactly are you asking me?”

Rumlow scowls. He isn’t even trying to make eye contact; he’s switching between staring at something over Bucky’s shoulder and glancing around in every direction - probably trying to make sure that no-one sees the two of them talking, which is about the only part of this whole situation that Bucky can get behind.

“What should I do?” he asks again, looking very reluctant but not backing down.

What the _fuck._ This is Bucky’s last high school event - other than the prom, but that’s being organised by Pepper, so isn’t quite as official as this - and they’re starting it off with Rumlow asking them for advice. They’re sure this isn’t the most surreal thing that’s ever happened to them, but it has to be up there in the top ten.

“I mean, be less of an asshole,” they say, because that one’s kind of obvious. They think for a moment about what they’d say if it was someone other than Brock Rumlow asking them, and decide to go with that. For Rumlow’s brother’s sake, if nothing else. “You said your dad kicked him out, does he have somewhere to go?”

That gets a nod, which is one good thing. “He lives in college accommodation. But Dad said he wasn’t welcome in the house again.”

Fuck. Bucky looks around, but they can’t see any of their friends yet.

“Okay,” they say slowly. “That sucks, but at least he’s not homeless. Just - let him know you support him, I guess.” Wait. They should probably think again about who they’re talking to. “If you do, I mean,” they add, not caring even a little when it comes out kind of harsh.

“He’s my brother,” Rumlow says in a stubborn sort of voice. Which doesn’t actually answer the question.

“Everyone start making your way to your seats!” comes a call from Ms Lewis through her megaphone. For some reason she’s been put in charge of organising the students, and there still isn’t a regular teacher in sight. She’s currently standing on a box someone brought out for her, since she’s half a head shorter than most of the people graduating.

The crowd around Bucky and Rumlow starts moving slowly, punctuated by the occasional cry of despair when someone’s hat falls off their head and gets trodden on. 

“Look,” Bucky says quickly, trying to pull all their thoughts together into some kind of coherent pattern. “I still hate you. But I feel bad for your brother, so. Talk to him. Read up on what being pansexual is - you can just google it, for fuck’s sake. Maybe try and make your dad understand it’s not that big a deal, if you think he’ll respond to that.” They take a breath. And then another. “Now leave me alone, okay. My boyfriend’s salutatorian, and I want to not be thinking about you and your issues when I listen to him give his speech.”

They turn around without letting Rumlow reply, and walk off to find their seat. They’re all arranged in alphabetical order; on one side of Bucky is Emma Andrews, who they don’t know all that well - she’s on her phone, anyway, so they just mutter a quick thanks when she moves her legs aside so they can squeeze past.

On Bucky’s other side is an empty seat, and then there’s Sharon, with Helen beyond her, both of them smiling at Bucky in welcome.

“You nervous?” Sharon asks them as soon as they’ve sat down. She’s twisting her hands round her sash in a way that makes it pretty obvious what her answer would be if they asked her the same question.

Bucky thinks about it. “Not really,” they answer honestly. “I did about as well as I was ever going to, you know?”

They feel a kind of bond with Sharon that they don’t necessarily have with anyone else in the group, and it has nothing to do with their personalities or with how much they have in common. It’s a simple result of the two of them constantly being surrounded by academic high-flyers, or people that aren’t quite at the top of the class but that probably could be close to it if they tried. That’s never going to be Bucky, or Sharon either, no matter how much encouragement their friends give them.

Bucky doesn’t feel great when they think about how much smarter Sam is than them, but they don’t hate themself for it, or anything. Not most days, at least. It’s just one of those annoying facts that no-one can change. 

Sharon nods at them - they think she’s looking sympathetic, maybe, but they don’t know her well enough to be able to tell for sure. “Grades don’t matter that much in the real world, anyway,” she says, and Bucky nods back. 

“Sure,” they reply, even though they have no idea whether that’s actually true or whether it’s just a vaguely comforting line. “Hey, Helen, your hat’s falling off,” they say, both because her hat _is_ looking very precarious, and because they just realised that grades very much matter for someone like Helen.

She reaches up to steady it. “Ugh. These hair-grips are so cheap,” she says, shaking her head a little and rolling her eyes when the hat almost falls off her head. “They never stay put in my hair.”

“I’d lend you some of mine,” Sharon offers. “They’re all blonde-coloured though, so it might look a bit weird.”

Bucky pulls their pack out of their robe pocket, reaching over to pass them to Sharon, who gives them to Helen. “Here you go. They’re brown, not black, but they’ll probably be hidden enough.”

Helen flashes them a quick smile. “Thanks,” she says. “Sharon, can you -”

“On it,” Sharon says, taking the grips back and already starting to slide a couple into Helen’s hair, clearly trying to hold the hat in place without stabbing Helen’s head.

“I hate this get-up,” comes a voice from the end of Bucky’s row of seats, and they look up to see Clint standing there. Oh, of course. Barton is right after Barnes; that must be who the empty seat is for.

“Late for your own graduation?” Bucky says, standing up to let Clint move past them and into his seat.

“My graduation’s fucking late for me,” Clint mutters, which doesn’t completely make sense but - well, he kind of has a point, Bucky thinks, glancing around. It’s been more than a few minutes since Ms Lewis had told them all to take their seats, and there’s still no sign of anything much happening.

Bucky tries to spot Sam, but they guess he’s waiting somewhere in the little teacher’s area behind the stage. He is the one starting the whole ceremony off, after all.

They can’t help but feeling pride rise up inside them yet again at that thought. No-one had actually been expecting salutatorian to go to Sam. The frontrunner for almost the entire school year had been Jane Foster, but then over the couple of months leading up to finals she’d decided to focus all her attention on getting full marks in every math and physics exam she was taking. Her overall grade hadn’t dropped that much, but it had been enough for Sam’s all-rounder high scores to take the lead.

Or, second lead. As far as Bucky knows, nobody had even considered trying to challenge Pepper for valedictorian. That particular achievement had been very clearly out of reach pretty much since Pepper had joined the school. Luckily, the rest of the super-intelligent crowd fit into two categories: too nice to dislike Pepper for her academic ability - Bucky’s including Sam and Jane in that one - or too in love with her to be able to respond to her grades with anything but compliments.

That second category is reserved just for Tony, naturally.

Sharon elbows Bucky just in time for them to look up and watch Sam take the stage.

“Good morning,” Sam says, and smiles out at the crowd. “I should be beginning with _ladies and gentlemen,_ I suppose, but so many traditions have outlived their usefulness, don’t you think?”

Bucky raises their eyebrows. That was one hundred percent aimed at them, they have no doubt. They aren’t a lady or a gentleman, and Sam has just neatly acknowledged that while leaving almost the entire audience clueless. 

They kind of want to give him a thumbs up, but they don’t want to be a distraction.

“I wasn’t supposed to be up here today,” Sam continues. “That honour was reserved for Jane, our very own rocket scientist. But here I am, and I’ll just have to hope that she doesn’t try to get revenge on me one day.” That gets a laugh from at least half the students; no-one can imagine Jane hurting a fly. Partly because that would involve looking away from her research.

Sam smiles again, that smile that makes everyone that sees it want to answer in kind. “So I’m sorry if this isn’t long enough, or serious enough. This is an important occasion, and I know another tradition is to be flippant about that, to make jokes about Robert Frost poems, or about how we must be sick of the sight of each other by this point.” He pauses, eyes moving across the rows of students. “But - I’m not going to do that. This _is_ important. And maybe this next bit is the most uncool statement anyone could ever make, but I don’t care.” He takes a deep breath, and Bucky wouldn’t take their eyes off him now for anything. 

“I’m going to miss this place,” Sam says, and his voice rings out clear and true. “I really am. I’m going to miss my classmates, and the teachers, who I really can’t thank enough. And I’ll miss Stan, and I might even start missing the food if I get nostalgic enough.” Another laugh. Bucky feels like they’ve never been this proud of anyone in their life. “I’ve made the best friends of my life here,” he continues, a little quieter now. “And I know what the grown-ups here are thinking - hi mom, hi dad, by the way. You’re thinking I don’t know what I’m saying, that I’ve got most of my life left to live yet. And you’re right. You are, and I’m looking forward to every day in front of me. But you’re wrong, too. I do know what I’m saying. The people I’ve met here, they’re friends for life.” Sam smiles into the crowd again, and Bucky isn’t looking away from his face, but out of the corner of their eye they can see Sharon blinking just a little too fast, her hand clutching onto Helen’s like a lifeline.

“It’s a scary world out there,” Sam goes on. “And it seems like people are doing their best to make it scarier every day. But I have faith in us. We’re going to help make the world a better place. I don’t mean in huge ways, though I have no doubt some of us will be doing that too - Pepper, Jane, Tony, Rhodey, Maria, we’re all behind you every step of the way. I mean in the little things. Being there for someone that needs you. Keeping an open mind. Accepting people’s differences - no, celebrating them.”

Bucky doesn’t think they’ve ever paid this much attention to a speech in their life, and they doubt they ever will again. Unless they ever marry Sam, of course. Speeches are a thing at weddings, right?

What the fuck, brain. Bucky ignores that train of thought, not wanting to miss a word of what Sam’s about to say next.

“I’m not going to lie, I spent some of the time I should have been studying for my math final looking at pages and pages of graduation quotes. Sorry, Mr Coulson. But - I couldn’t find one that summed us all up, not really. Maybe that sounds kind of arrogant? It’s not supposed to be. It’s just - we’re a weird bunch, if I’m being honest, and I don’t mean that in a bad way.” Bucky can’t stop smiling; they know that every single person in their friendship group will be in the same state.

Sam looks out over the crowd. “So instead of a poem, or a historical essay, I’m going to end on a quote from Stan.” That gets a hearty round of cheers and laughter from the students - and some of the teachers, Bucky notices - but the parents just seem confused. “Stan Lee, by the way, for those of you that don’t know,” Sam continues. “He’s our janitor, and he’s a bit of a legend at this school. We’ve given him a lot to put up with over the last few years, and I figured he’d be glad to see us gone - especially Tony, who can’t seem to stop experimenting with things that end up with the physics lab smoking from every corner.”

“But I asked him what he would say to us all, if he got us in one place long enough to listen, and you know what he said? He said that he’s sure our future will be wonderful.” Sam pauses, and Bucky knows that wicked little grin of his well enough to not start applauding yet. “Okay, okay, I’m paraphrasing. His exact words were ‘if you don’t all blow yourselves up, your future will be wonderful.’ But I think we can all appreciate the sentiment, can’t we?”

Sam looks down for a second, and Bucky has a feeling that he’s just come to the end of the speech he’d prepared - which he hadn’t let them read; every moment of this has been as much of a surprise to them as to anyone else here. 

“So there you go,” he says, looking more solemn now. “Cool it on the experiments involving anything flammable - oh, hey, that pun wasn’t even on purpose. Be kind to each other, because that’s a cliche that I can always get behind. Keep in touch with the people you don’t want to lose. I mean it. I know a lot of you want to tear out of high school and never look back, and I understand that. I’ve been lucky here, and I know not everyone has. But - I don’t believe that there’s a single one of you who doesn’t have at least one happy memory of this place. Hold onto that, okay?” Sam stops and looks down again, and Bucky wonders if that was the end. But then he lifts his head back up. “Thank you,” he says. “I mean that. Thank you, and congratulations, and remember - we’re all going to have a wonderful future.”

He steps down then, and everyone starts clapping even before he’s made it onto the second step. Bucky’s eyes aren’t exactly dry, and they’re sure they aren’t the only one tearing up.

Sam. God, Sam.

Bucky can’t wait to see him. They don’t even know what they’re going to say to him, but the specifics don’t matter. They just want to be next to him, as corny as that might sound.

Unfortunately, they have an entire graduation ceremony to get through first.

Bucky spends the moments the first couple of names are called thinking about Sam’s speech, and distantly keeping their fingers crossed that they don’t manage to trip over anything on the way to collect their certificate. 

Then Clint’s name is called, and no-one is paying attention to anything but him. Specifically, his feet. Which are clad in very eye-catching red high heels. Bucky has no idea how they managed to miss that with him sat right next to them - well, they admit that most of their attention had been on Sam, which could explain it.

Clint doesn’t miss a step as he walks across the makeshift stage, not even when someone - possibly Nat, actually, given the direction it had been coming from - catcalls him loudly.

Bucky has to be up and moving before Clint’s sat down again, but they manage to catch his eye across everyone’s heads and give him a quick grin and a thumbs-up, both of which are enthusiastically returned.

They don’t trip, or do anything else embarrassing - though they can’t say the same for their mom, who’s crouched in the aisle between the two seating areas so that she can get the best possible photo. Bucky briefly wonders whether they should ignore her, but ends up pausing for a second and making eye contact with the camera instead.

Definitely the right choice, they think as they look away and end up staring straight into Sam’s smile.

They sit down again, trying to guess exactly how long this whole thing will take. Not that they can be alone with Sam afterwards - there’s going to be parents and classmates and teachers to deal with, they know that. But they can at least be together, admittedly while surrounded by a crowd of people.

Bucky claps loudly for all their friends, and mimes clapping for everyone else. They clap for real again after Pepper’s valedictorian speech, which was - unsurprisingly - a lot more formal than Sam’s. But it was formal without being formulaic, and it clearly came from the heart. Her ending quote had been appropriate, as well, if a little unusual.

“Friendship is unnecessary,” she’d said, which had made the entire audience glance around at each other, slightly uneasy. Then she’d smiled, and Bucky, at least, had relaxed again. “That’s the first half of a quote from C. S. Lewis,” she’d continued. “Friendship is unnecessary, in the most literal sense. As he put it, it has no survival value. But it’s what he went on to say that I think is important. Friendship is what _gives_ value to survival.” She had hesitated, then, looking almost uncertain for the first time since she’d stepped up, poised as always in the gown that somehow hung perfectly on her. “I’m a driven person. That’s no surprise to anyone who knows me. I’ve worked hard here, and I’m going to keep working hard in the future. There’s a lot I want to achieve, and I’m not ashamed of that. But I’ve known I was ambitious my whole life. What I didn’t know, until I arrived at this school, was how much I was missing out on by not leaving time for other things. Things that certain people might call less valuable, but which I think are too important to put a price on.”

“We don’t just want to survive, in this world,” she’d said, looking out at a sea of faces, many of whom had probably mocked her for her ambitions more than once. “We want to thrive, and that means letting ourselves be open to people. Letting ourselves make friends, and keep them. Like Sam said, if you take away anything from this day, from this year, remember that. Friendship is what gives our survival its value.”

So yeah, Bucky had applauded that. Until their hands were sore, actually, along with most everyone else, until Pepper’s face was as red as her hair.

And then they were all throwing their hats up, and a few people were catching the wrong ones and arguing about it, and cameras were flashing frantically, trying to capture the exact right moment, and then - and then it was all over. Ms Lewis stood up again, to give a few reminders about the logistics of getting everyone out safely, but it was over.

“This is so weird,” Bucky says to themself. 

Clint clears his throat. “Yeah, weird,” he says, wiping his hand over his eyes quickly.

“That was so lovely,” Helen says. She’s still staring at the stage, even though no-one’s up there anymore. “I think I’m going to go find Pepper. I want to tell her how good her speech was.”

“And I have to go find my family,” Sharon says, picking up a hat that looks a lot more worse-for-wear than it had five minutes ago. “I’ll see you all later, though?”

“Definitely,” Bucky says, waving her off.

For a while it’s just Bucky and Clint - Bucky should probably find their mom, but they don’t much feel like moving right now. She knows where they’re sitting, more or less. Then they spot a flash of bright red hair pushing its way through the crowd, and they wave Nat - oh, and Steve’s with her too - over to them.

“Hi there,” Bucky says to Steve - Nat and Clint are already talking, though Nat gives them a little wave as a kind of silent greeting.

Steve wraps his arms around Bucky and pulls them in for a hug. Bucky goes along without protest, even though both their hats end up falling onto the floor yet again in the process.

“We made it,” Steve says into Bucky’s hair. “I’m so proud of us.” He sounds more than a little emotional, and Bucky hugs him tighter for a second before letting go.

“We did,” they say, picking their hats back up. “You thought we wouldn’t?”

 _You thought I wouldn’t?_ is their unspoken question, but they don’t really believe the answer would be yes.

Steve shakes his head. “No - I knew we would. It’s just real now. You know?”

“Yeah,” Bucky says quietly. “I know.”

“Hey, Rogers. How was the boring-ass ceremony from your half of the seats?” Clint asks, as though he’s just noticed that Nat wasn’t the only person who joined them.

Steve looks like he’s confused by something. “Oh, it was fine,” he says. “Sam’s speech was great. And Pepper’s, as well. But - me and Nat were sat by Rumlow, and he was really nice the whole time. It was like he’d been body-swapped.”

Oh. Bucky had actually managed to completely forget about that little incident before the ceremony.

“That’s weird,” they say, because they aren’t about to go and spill Rumlow’s issues to everyone, no matter how little the guy deserves to have his secrets kept. 

“Maybe he just decided to turn over a new leaf,” Steve says, sounding - understandably - very doubtful.

“Or maybe he’s plotting something,” Nat suggests. Bucky doesn’t think she sounds alarmed at the idea - mostly kind of excited, actually. “We should keep an eye on him.”

“Think he’s already gone,” Steve says. “He rushed off pretty quick after everything was over.”

“Oh,” Nat says, clearly disappointed. “Well, maybe he’s going to sabotage the prom.”

Jesus. “We aren’t in Carrie, Nat,” Bucky points out, really wishing that everyone would just shut up about Brock fucking Rumlow already. “At most, he’ll probably tip a bit of vodka in the punch.”

“Are you talking about prom?” Sam says as he comes up to them, smiling at everyone and giving Bucky a quick kiss on the cheek. “Because if so, I don’t want to disappoint you all, but there isn’t going to be any punch this year.”

“Oh. Why not?” Steve asks. “And your speech was amazing, Sam. Seriously.”

Sam shrugs, looking pleased. “Thanks, Rogers. And the punch thing was a committee decision. By which I mean a Pepper Potts decision. But I think she has a point - it’s not exactly hard to spike a giant bowl, is it?”

“I hate people,” Steve says, with his best disappointed-forever-in-humanity expression on - Bucky has been familiar with it for years; it hasn’t changed a bit.

“On a happier note,” Sam says, pulling his hat off and scowling at it - Bucky can see a little indented line on his forehead; they guess that the school had given him a too-small hat because his hair’s too short to put grips in. “My mom and dad came through on the lunch thing they kept being all secretive about. They booked space for like forty people at this really nice restaurant a couple blocks away.”

“Can Clint come?” Nat asks immediately. Bucky looks at Sam too; they really hope he says yes. They hadn’t wanted to ask Clint if his dad or brother were at the ceremony, and his bad mood could have meant they either were or weren’t, but if he is alone then Bucky doesn’t want to leave him out.

“I can ask for myself, Nat,” Clint says, sounding more than a bit fed-up. Bucky can’t blame him. Not only is he in the most uncomfortable gown ever invented - probably - people keep staring at his feet with very confused faces. And his family almost definitely aren’t here; surely they would have come up to congratulate him by now?

“Course you can,” Sam says, without even checking it with his parents first. “Who else?”

“I think Tony’s mom was organising something small,” Steve says. “So that probably counts Rhodey out. I don’t know about anyone else.”

“Maria’s mom is dragging her to her grandma’s,” Nat says, sounding annoyed. “We’re going to steal her back for prom though, don’t worry.”

“I’ll text Sharon and Helen then,” Sam says. “Are their families here as well?”

“I think I saw Peggy,” Steve says, and Bucky looks sharply at him when they see that tell-tale little blush rising on his cheeks. 

“I thought she flew back to England,” Nat says - she’s looking at Steve like she knows something he doesn’t, and Bucky wonders if it’s the same thing _they_ know that Steve doesn’t. They can’t ask her though, that might give something away.

Steve shrugs. “Maybe she came back for the ceremony?” His voice is a bit disbelieving, and Bucky guesses that he’s finding it hard to imagine having so much money that you could just jet across the world for a weekend.

“I told them to meet us at the restaurant in half-an-hour if they want to join,” Sam says, moving his gown out of the way as he tries to put his phone back in his pocket.

“Can we take these things off already?” Bucky asks, tugging at the fabric that’s starting to feel more and more like sackcloth with every passing second. “It’s only going to get hotter.”

“No,” Sam and Steve say together, both looking over Bucky’s shoulder. 

They turn round. Oh. No, they don’t want to know what would happen if they took the robes off right now.

“Pictures!” Darlene says, now that everyone’s paying attention to her and the small group of parents clustered around her. Bucky tries to stamp down the little flash of anxiety they get when they see their mom standing right next to Tom. Sam’s parents know they haven’t come out to their mom yet, they tell themself. It’s all fine.

His mom isn’t waving a camera like Darlene is, but Bucky would bet good money that she’d like to be, if her arms weren’t full with one of the twins - Alice, they’re pretty sure. Steve’s mom is standing just behind her, holding Evie, and the other Sarah in the group - Sam’s sister - is occupying both the twins by dangling her necklace in front of first one and then the other. Becca is at school, which Bucky doesn’t mind at all; they know she’d have been bored stiff by every single thing other than Sam’s speech and Clint’s heels.

Girl has good instincts already.

Sam and Steve are already shuffling obediently into position in front of Darlene and Sarah. Oh, God. This is going to take ages; they have way too many people to coordinate for it all to go smoothly.

Nat’s dad is there too, standing off to the side a little awkwardly. Bucky really doesn’t know either of Nat’s parents, except by sight. They do know that her mom has more than enough money to make a weekend trip from Russia a negligible expense, though.

Sarah - Wilson - takes both twins at once, one in each arm, which Bucky thinks is extremely brave of her, so that both Bucky and Steve’s moms can take their pictures. Including one of the two of them together, of course. They’ve made it through so much by each other’s sides; Bucky does want some kind of evidence that they stuck together this long.

There’s an awkward moment when Darlene wants a picture of Sam and Bucky together and Bucky’s mom looks like she’s about to ask why, but thankfully Alice chooses that exact moment to throw her shoe at Tom’s foot.

They take the picture quickly, and Bucky tries not to feel too guilty. They know they’re the only reason it has to be got out of the way fast.

And then everyone’s done, finally, and Bucky starts trying to find the hidden zips on the gown. They weren’t paying enough attention this morning when they put it on; they hope they can get out of the thing without scissors being involved.

“Wait,” Steve says, catching Bucky’s hand before they can undo anything. He’s looking around at the students milling about, maybe searching for someone. “We don’t have a picture of all nine of us.”

Oh. Damn. Bucky wants to protest that they have lots of pictures of all of them, but they know that Steve will never quite forgive himself if he doesn’t at least try to get them all organised for a group graduation photo.

And they have to admit, this is the kind of milestone that they don’t mind documenting. They might never have another graduation, after all, they think yet again.

“Do we really need -” Nat begins, but the end of her sentence gets lost in chaos.

“I can see Tony and Rhodey!” Sam calls out, pointing through a brief gap in the crowd.

“I think that’s Maria over there, isn’t it?” Tom asks a little doubtfully - Sam’s parents have never hosted the whole group; that honour is usually reserved for the Starks and their ridiculously large house.

“I’ll text Helen and Sharon again,” Nat says, already typing before Bucky can point out that maybe Sam should do it, so that they aren’t giving everyone confusing messages about where exactly they’re meeting.

Somehow they get everyone assembled, and then Darlene manages to line them up in time for two pictures, a serious one and a silly one. Well, that’s the idea, anyway. Bucky’s pretty sure that both the photos will turn out more than a little silly.

Silly, and happy, and most of all _together._ Sam’s speech had a lot going for it, but there’s one part that’s going to stay in Bucky’s mind for a long time. 

Forever, maybe.

These _are_ the friends they want to keep for life. This eclectic, eccentric little group of people who have hardly anything in common on the surface, who might have been brought together by something as banal as trying to survive high school intact, but who over time have formed into something that’s so much more than that.

Bucky doesn’t want to lose this. 

Any of it, they think, looking at Sam and smiling at the light in his eyes as he pulls Rhodey’s robes off, getting them both tangled together in the process.

Sam had been right. Bucky’s going to be leaving this place with a lot of memories, and they hadn’t realised until now that most of them are ones they truly want to hold onto.

It’s a good feeling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aw I got emotional writing this, can you tell?? Luckily it made sense for the characters to be emotional too!
> 
> I have zero experience of the whole salutatorian/valedictorian thing, I'm sure Sam and Pepper's speeches were a bit unconventional, but hopefully they weren't too unrealistic.
> 
> Major points to anyone that spotted the Stan cameos in previous chapters (they were very brief). The quote "If we don't blow ourselves up, the future will be wonderful" is indeed a Stan Lee quote. And the C. S. Lewis one is real as well.
> 
> Oh! Also, I got a tumblr at the same time as I got an AO3 and I keep forgetting to link it on here. If you want to keep in touch after the fic is over I would love that, my tumblr is also sororising and if you don't have tumblr I have a gmail.com address that is also (shockingly) sororising. I don't know many fandom people and always love talking to people in the comments, so I'll miss that after chapter 16 is up!
> 
> Feedback/concrit really appreciated as always.
> 
> And now to the prom for the final chapter! :(


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam looks back at them again before the lift arrives. They’re still in the doorway: his sister, his dad, and his mom, and he suddenly feels like the luckiest person on earth. “Love you!” he calls back, before he steps inside with Bucky.
> 
> “Right,” he says, as the doors close. “That’s enough family time. Ready to go have the best night of our lives?”
> 
> “Of our lives so far,” Bucky says, and Sam smiles.
> 
> “Yeah, alright. I guess I’m going to want something to top my high school prom at some point.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And - it's done! I can't believe it's finished, wow. Thank you so much for reading, I have really loved writing this story, and if you've made it this far hopefully that means you liked reading it!
> 
> Sequels planned:
> 
> -Winifred/Sarah backstory (was supposed to be 2k and is rapidly growing)  
> -Cute Sam/Bucky oneshot in the summer holidays  
> -The whole gang having a holiday at one of the Stark's summer houses  
> -the Big Sequel, which will span the 2016-17 school year. I have a lot of thoughts about it but zero words, and a giant SamSteve series I'm currently researching, so I will make no promises about this one, it might not exist for another year.
> 
> I've made this into a series so you can subscribe just to that without subscribing to me (though almost all my fics are MCU, so feel free to subscribe to me if you're interested in Sam, Steve, Bucky, Natasha or Sharon, the main characters I write about). Series title is currently taken from the Tolkien quote "All we have to do is decide what to do with the time that is given us," but that may change. How have I written 110k words and now I'm stuck on a title?!
> 
> Anyway, here it is: the last chapter. I got a little sentimental in it, but that should work with the setting. Enjoy! And thank you <3
> 
> No chapter-specific warnings. (except overwhelming FEELS)

* * *

Sam looks in the mirror one last time. Mostly to avoid making eye contact with his mom. She’s been just a little too tearful so far this evening, and he’d really like to make it out the door without anyone actually breaking down.

“You look so handsome,” she says for what he’s pretty sure must be the hundredth time. “So grown-up.” Fuck. Her voice is definitely wavering now. “Tom!” she calls out. “Come see Sam!”

“Let’s go wait in the living room, okay?” Sam suggests, because his room is pretty small, and Bucky should - in theory - be arriving any minute now. He really doesn’t need his entire family plus his partner crowding themselves into his bedroom.

Sarah’s in the living room already, watching TV on her laptop and looking completely unbothered that it’s one of the most significant days in her little brother’s life so far. Sam’s just fine with that.

“Sarah,” his mom says in her sternest voice, and Sam winces. Clearly he’s the only one fine with his sister’s attitude. “Take your headphones out. Look at your brother. Doesn’t he look nice?”

Sarah pauses her show and looks up. “Fu - wow. Fancy.” Sam rolls his eyes, but grins at her at the same time. Everyone in the room knows that there’s no graceful way to transition from _fuck_ to _fancy._ He just hopes that his mom will choose to ignore the slip.

It is Sam’s prom night, after all.

His dad comes in then, with perfect timing. “Oh, this takes me back. You look just like me when I was your age.”

“I sincerely hope not,” Sam says, looking down and straightening his tie yet again. “Not everyone can pull off bell-bottoms until well into the eighties.”

“I was always the height of fashion, son. Wasn’t I, darling?”

Sam’s mom’s face is a picture. “You certainly had your own kind of - flair,” she says, and Sam and Sarah exchange a quick glance; Sarah’s clearly trying just as hard as he is not to laugh.

“Anyway,” Sam says loudly, before his dad can make some terrible joke involving _flair_ and _flares_. “I think we should set some ground rules for how many photos is too many before Bucky gets here.”

“It’s your prom night,” his mom says firmly. “It’s your last official day of being a high school student. Of course I want to document it.”

“We also don’t want to make him late to meet his friends,” his dad points out, and Sam gives him a grateful look.

“Well, I -”

Sam’s mom stops talking as the buzzer for the building entrance sounds. Sam tries to move quickly, but he feels weird in his suit, like he’s going to crease the material somehow if he does anything other than stand still, so Sarah gets there first.

“Is this the paramour of Samuel Thomas Wilson?” she says in a horrible attempt at a British accent. Sam looks desperately up at the ceiling. 

“You don’t _have_ to be this embarrassing,” he says. “You know that, right?”

Sarah turns to look at him. “It’s in the big sister handbook, so actually I do,” she says solemnly, before pressing the button to let Bucky - Sam assumes it’s Bucky, anyway, he hopes that some random delivery person hadn’t just been on the other end of Sarah’s paramour question - into the building.

 _Breathe,_ he tells himself sternly.

He loves his family, he really does. It’s just - they can be a little overwhelming sometimes, he’s fully aware of that. And he knows that they all like Bucky, and that the feeling’s mutual, which is amazing. 

But - it’s prom, okay, and he wants everything to go perfectly. Surely that isn’t too much to ask for?

He moves to open the front door, and as soon as he does he sees Bucky, waiting there with their hand already raised to knock.

“Good timing,” Sam says, unable to worry anymore about - well, about anything, not when Bucky’s right there in front of him, and especially not when they look so incredible.

They’ve gone with a suit vest over their dark green shirt - Sam sees that it’s the exact same shade of green as his tie is; he’d tried to buy what sounded like the right colour and he’s glad he got it right - instead of a full jacket, and they’re wearing their hair down, with just a touch of eyeliner to complete the look.

“You look gorgeous,” Sam says, 

“You too,” Bucky says, smiling at him and looking completely at ease in a way that they haven’t in a while. Too long, Sam thinks, and grins back.

“Fair warning, my mom wants pictures,” he says, linking his fingers through Bucky’s and leading them into the house. 

“I think I’ve had more pictures taken in the past few days that I have since I was a baby,” Bucky says, thankfully keeping their voice down as they head into the living room.

The graduation photos had actually turned out really nicely; Sam hasn’t put them on Facebook yet, but he’s planning on creating a big album of high school memories after prom. He might co-ordinate it with Steve, who has a lot of random candids from the last year. And he’d also recorded Sam’s entire graduation speech, which is sort of embarrassing but mostly very nice.

“Bucky!” 

Bucky ducks their head, but their little smile hasn’t disappeared. “Hi, Mrs - hi, Darlene. How are you?”

“Always so polite,” Sarah says, somehow not making it sound like a compliment. “Aw, you cleaned up nice. I like the eyeliner.”

“Thanks,” Bucky says, reaching up to their eyes with their free hand for a second, but quickly dropping it again before anything gets smudged. 

“If you boys just stand over here,” Sam’s mom says, gesturing at the fake fireplace that they never use. “Tom, you’re in the way.”

“Sorry, dear,” his dad says, grinning at Sam over the top of his mom’s head. “I’ll just go stand in the corner, shall I?”

“Yes, good, thank you.”

Everyone laughs at that, and Sam sees the exact moment his mom decides that it isn’t worth asking about. 

Bucky pulls him over to the fireplace, looking sort of pleased and embarrassed and touched all at the same time. Sam’s sure that their mom will have taken her own photos, probably with Becca clinging on to Bucky’s leg in a few of them, but he has to admit that it’s nice how much his parents - or his mom, at least - want pictures of the two of them together.

Sometimes he thinks back to when he’d been terrified she’d reject him forever if he came out to her, and he can’t quite put himself into that mindset again. It’s like it had been a whole different version of him, one that he can’t understand anymore.

He can’t really explain that to Bucky, because he knows it would come across like him trying to persuade them to come out to their mom, and that’s not what he - well, he _does_ want it, but he wants it because he thinks Bucky will feel better about themself once it’s over, not for his own sake.

“Stop daydreaming,” Bucky whispers, and Sam faces forward and smiles just as the camera flashes.

“That looked really posed,” Sarah says, and Sam doesn’t even have to look at her to know that she’s silently laughing at them.

Sam rolls his eyes. “It’s a prom picture, okay, what did you expect?”

Bucky nudges him. “Look at me,” they say, quietly enough that Sam doesn’t think any of his family hear them.

Sam turns his head enough to meet Bucky’s eyes, enough to see their soft smile, and - and the camera flashes again.

“Mom! That was a private moment,” he says, but he knows he doesn’t sound all that annoyed. 

“Can I see the picture?” Bucky asks, moving away from Sam and towards his mom.

“Of course you can, sweetie.”

What the hell. 

Bucky’s looking down at the camera with an almost wistful expression. “It’s lovely,” they say. “Thanks, Darlene.”

Well, alright then. Sam isn’t asshole enough to want to argue after that. “You want any more, Mom?” he asks, kind of hoping that the answer is no but knowing that they’ll stay even if it isn’t.

“I think this one is just about perfect,” his mom says. “But we should get one of you and Sarah, don’t you agree?”

“I could not agree more,” Sam says, keeping his voice deadpan. 

Sarah looks up again. “What? Why? This isn't even remotely a special occasion for me. The highlight of my evening was going to be making this brownie in a mug recipe I just found.”

“I just want a nice picture of my babies, who won’t stop growing up, who keep -”

“Okay, mom!” Sarah says, getting up and moving over to Sam. “Please not the ‘why is time going so fast speech again.’ Take the damn - um, take the picture.”

“We look like one of those magazine articles on the best and worst celebrity outfits,” Sam says happily, comparing his crisp suit to his sister’s Star Trek hoodie and bright yellow pyjama pants.

“Do you want to be a tragic prom-night murder story?” Sarah asks in her sweetest voice, smiling at their mom’s camera all the while. “Because I can make that happen for you.”

Sam’s laughing by the time the camera flashes. 

“Seriously though,” Sarah says, after their mom has agreed that four pictures will do. “Have fun tonight, okay? Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

Sam grins at her. “Wasn’t it your friend-group who decided to break into the headmaster’s office and cover his desk in toilet paper? You’re still legends for that, by the way.”

“Keep your voice down!” Sarah glances over at their parents, who are flicking through the camera pictures together, looking much too emotional for Sam’s liking. “And, fine, whatever. Don’t do anything I would do, then. Same to you, Bucky. Have a good night.”

Bucky smiles at her. “Thanks. We will.”

Sam glances at them. There hadn’t been even a hint of doubt in their voice. “Yeah, we will,” he repeats.

“Oh my god, so sickening,” Sarah says, completely ruining the moment. “Go on, get out before Mom decides the lighting was wrong, or something.”

Sam laughs. “Alright, alright. We’re leaving, all. Mom, Dad, I’ll be crashing at Tony’s house, remember, don’t wait up.”

They’re waved off with one evil grin, one solemn-but-proud expression, and one smile that keeps wavering, just a little.

Sam looks back at them again before the lift arrives. They’re still in the doorway: his sister, his dad, and his mom, and he suddenly feels like the luckiest person on earth. “Love you!” he calls back, before he steps inside with Bucky.

“Right,” he says, as the doors close. “That’s enough family time. Ready to go have the best night of our lives?”

“Of our lives so far,” Bucky says, and Sam smiles.

“Yeah, alright. I guess I’m going to want something to top my high school prom at some point.”

* * *

Bucky lets out a low whistle as soon as they step into the hall. 

“Agreed,” Sam says, raising his eyebrows as he looks around at the scene. Pepper had really outdone herself. He has no idea how she’d found the time to plan an entire prom in-between finals revision, writing a speech, and - probably - making a start on her course readings for Harvard.

But someone had needed to step up to the plate, since the teachers never took on any of the responsibility of organising the prom, and she’d really come through. The hall isn’t quite unrecognisable, but there’s enough streamers and wall-hangings and careful lighting to make it about a thousand times more attractive than usual.

“I was never going to come to this, you know,” Bucky says, which - no, Sam very much did _not_ know that.

“You maybe could have mentioned something before tonight,” he says dryly. “We didn’t have to come.”

He won’t lie, he’d have been a bit disappointed to miss this night. He knows it’s all going to be one big cliche piled on top of another, but he’s nowhere near as cynical about stuff like that as Bucky is - or as they pretend to be, anyway - and he’s been looking forward to this for a long time. Last official gathering of everyone, at least until they start having reunions. The big celebration of everything they’ve been through together. The ‘we survived school, now let’s throw a giant party in honour of that’ night.

Yeah, he wouldn’t have wanted to not be here.

Bucky elbows him, snapping him out of his thoughts. “No, I meant - before, I mean. If we weren’t together. I probably wouldn’t have bothered.”

“You say that,” Sam says. “But would you have had the guts to say that to Steve? You’d have been dragged along, and you’d have pretended to hate it but secretly you’d have had a great time.”

That gets him nothing but silence for a few seconds.

“Fuck you,” Bucky says, sounding much more amused than their words do. “Yeah, alright. If all of you lot were going, I’d have - oh, wow. Holy shit, they look good.”

Sam turns to face whoever Bucky’s looking at, and - yeah. _Wow_ is kind of an understatement.

Nat and Clint are entering the hall, and Sam honestly feels like a background character in a movie right now, because literally everyone is turning about to look at their entrance.

Very understandably.

Nat is in a fitted black suit, with high-heeled boots on and her hair slicked back and pulled into a ponytail. She’s wearing dark red lipstick, and the combination of - well, of everything - makes her look like - 

It takes Sam a few seconds, but he decides that Nat looks exactly like a femme fatale aimed at lesbians and bi women. He wonders if she’d take that as a compliment. Probably.

And Clint is holding her hand, walking along next to her as though there’s nothing at all odd about the fact that he’s wearing a pale pink, full-skirted prom dress, with the same red heels that had made everyone stare at graduation.

Technically there _isn’t_ anything odd about it, Sam knows, but he still can’t stop watching.

Nat and Clint walk right up to them, which puts the spotlight on Sam and Bucky as well. Sam hopes that nobody’s making fun of Bucky’s hair - he doubts it, really; Clint’s outfit will have overshadowed any other comments people might have had stored up.

“You look fucking amazing,” Bucky says, hugging Clint as soon as he’s within reach. “You too, Nat.”

“Seconded,” Sam says, grinning at Nat, who looks a little embarrassed but mostly just pleased. “Seriously, I’m speechless. You two should win best-dressed tonight, if there’s any justice in the world.”

Nat shrugs. “I don't think Pepper's actually doing that this year, but thanks. It was fun, having everyone look like we punched them in the face at the same time.”

Sam laughs. “Yeah, I bet.”

Jemma Simmons, who Sam only vaguely knows from a bio class last year, comes up to them and hands them each a little card.

“I’m collecting your votes,” she says, and Sam looks down to see two blank lines, with ‘Prom King’ and ‘Prom Queen’ typed out above them.

“No nominations, just whoever gets the most wins,” she says, before looking at Nat shyly. “Um, I love your outfit, by the way.”

Sam grins to himself. He’d been spot on with his thoughts about Nat’s whole get-up, but he still decides to keep them to himself. Nat’s pretty much his best friend, but there’s some things they don’t talk about much with each other. Her sexuality - no, fuck, her romantic orientation, he corrects himself in his head - is one of them.

He takes the pen Jemma hands him and thinks for a second before writing down two names. He doesn’t look over to see what Bucky, Nat or Clint are writing, even though he’s kind of curious.

They all hand the cards back, and Jemma heads off to the next group with one last little glance at Nat.

“Sorry there was just king and queen,” Clint says to Bucky. “I’d totally have voted for you otherwise."

Bucky smiles in that adorable kind-of flattered, kind-of embarrassed way they have. “Thanks, but no thanks,” they say. “I’m good without any kind of crown.”

“I promised I’d find Sharon as soon as I got here,” Nat says. “But I’ll see you later?”

“I’ll come,” Clint says, looking down at his dress and moving his hips so it swishes around. “I want to walk past as many people as possible in this thing. See who’s the first one to say something rude.”

“Have fun with that,” Sam says, waving them both off. 

He turns to Bucky as soon as they’re out of earshot; he has something he wants to double-check before the evening really gets underway. “It doesn’t bother you, right?” Sam asks. “That Clint’s fine with wearing dresses and heels but you aren’t?”

That maybe wasn’t quite the right way to put it, but he can’t figure out what would be. And he just wants to be sure that Bucky isn’t feeling upset about anything along those lines, because he wants them to enjoy tonight just as much as he’s planning to.

Also, they look stunning, and Sam is more than happy to remind them of that as many times as they can stand to hear it.

Bucky shakes their head. “Not anymore,” they say. “I really don’t care about my clothes that much, it’s not a big issue for me. I thought - when I tried on that dress of Maria’s, I thought it looked terrible. But it wasn’t that. I mean, Clint’s biceps are twice the size of mine and he looks incredible. I just - if I feel like shit in an outfit, that’s going to come across, I guess.”

“That makes sense,” Sam says, feeling bad for bringing up what he’s almost certain is still a painful memory. Bucky hadn’t even told him about that until quite a while after it had happened. Which could either mean that it must have had a big effect on them, or that it had been too insignificant to mention - and Sam would be willing to put money on it being option one. “And you look good whatever you’re wearing.”

One side of Bucky’s mouth twitches, in that way that means they’re trying not to say what they’re thinking. “I won’t make a comment about also looking good wearing nothing,” they say, and Sam feels himself blushing.

“You kind of just did,” he points out. “And that’s a really unhelpful image for you to put in my brain when I’m wearing suit pants.” They leave very little to the imagination already.

Bucky looks at him curiously. “That actually does it for you? I was mostly joking.”

Does - what the fuck?

“Does thinking about my extremely attractive partner naked _do it_ for me? Bucky, I told you, I’m not ace and I definitely have a sex drive. So yeah, you could say that.”

Honestly. Being nervous about sex doesn’t mean it’s never on his mind. He wouldn’t be surprised if the truth was the exact opposite of that, actually.

Bucky puts their hands up, laughing a little. “Okay, okay. I wasn’t being insecure, I was just interested. No more talk about me being naked. Or me being naked except for that tie you’re wearing.”

Someone makes a very choked noise behind them, and Sam groans. He turns around to see - well, okay, it could be worse.

“Um. Hi, Sam.” Steve coughs, looking extremely uncomfortable. “Hi, Bucky. You both look - very nice.”

Steve isn’t actually making eye contact with either of them. Possibly he’s trying not to look at Sam’s tie.

“Aw, Stevie,” Bucky says, hugging Steve quickly - Bucky’s in a way more physically affectionate mood tonight than usual, Sam’s pretty sure; maybe the emotions of prom night are having an effect after all. “Sorry about that. I know you artists are very visual people.”

Steve is rapidly turning a brighter red than Sam’s ever seen on him. Which had been a pretty high bar, after that time he’d tripped over his own feet when Sharon had come to watch track practice.

“You look great too,” Sam says, taking pity on Steve. And he does look nice, in his black suit and blue tie, and - 

“Are they American flag cufflinks?” Sam asks, taking Steve’s sleeve and turning it round for a better look.

Steve easily slips his arm out of Sam’s grip. “Maybe. What are those then?” He nods down at Sam’s own wrists. Oh, yeah, he’d forgotten about that. 

“BB8,” he says, showing them off proudly. “My sister got me them. You’re just jealous because you have boring flags instead of cute little robots.”

“As a non-cufflinked person, this whole conversation is very boring to me,” Bucky says. “And Tony’s been waving at us for five minutes; he’s starting to get that look in his eyes like he wants to shoot lasers at us.

“I wouldn’t put it past him to sneak lasers into the prom, actually,” Sam says. “But yeah, let’s go say hi to everyone.”

“Fair warning, Sharon and Rhodey made plans for how they were going to drag us all onto the dancefloor at some point,” Steve says, waving back at Tony.

Bucky hums to themself. “They can _try._ No promises.”

* * *

It takes a while for the dancing to really get going; everyone is pretty awkward about it at first, shuffling around in their own little circles, occasionally waving their arms when a song they know comes on - and then glancing around quickly to check that nobody was watching them show enthusiasm about something.

Sarah has assured Sam that the idea of it being beyond uncool to show an interest in anything is way more of a high school thing than a college one, which had been good to hear.

But either there’s alcohol being passed around somewhere or people are just starting to feel more comfortable, because after a while there's a small crowd who are properly dancing. More or less.

Sam and Bucky aren’t, partly because Bucky hates dancing, and partly because they’re only sort of out at school, and they’re having a good time right now just watching everyone else.

Bucky says something, and even though they’re leaning in close to Sam’s ear he still has no idea what it had been.

“Can’t hear you!” he says, trying to speak as clearly as possible.

Bucky opens their mouth like they’re about to shout louder, then gives up and pulls out their phone. They type on it for a few seconds, tilting the screen towards Sam as soon as they’re done.

**just saw helen and maria at the drinks table going to go say hi want to come**

If he could be heard over the music, Sam would make a joke about Bucky’s dislike-hate relationship with punctuation, but he just takes the phone off Bucky, deletes the message, and starts typing his own.

**i saw rhodey on his own a few minutes ago, i’ll go check on him. text me when you’re done? xxx**

Bucky rolls their eyes, probably because leaving three kisses wasn’t entirely necessary on a message that simple. Whatever, they should just be glad that they have such a loving boyfriend.

Sam leans in for a quick kiss before pulling back sharply. “Sorry!” he says, hoping that Bucky can read at least that word from his lips. “Forgot where we were.” That part probably won’t come across, but hopefully the general sentiment will.

“It’s okay,” Bucky says, or at least Sam’s pretty sure they do. They wave and move off towards the - punch-free - drinks table.

Sam heads towards the fire exit. It’s not alarmed; it’s also used as the entrance for any large pieces of gym equipment, so he doesn’t feel bad about opening it and slipping outside.

He’s not actually sure it had been Rhodey he’d seen leaving through it before; he’d only caught a glimpse, but he wants to double-check.

He looks around. No-one’s in sight. He could go on a search, but it seems a bit pointless; if Rhodey had left, he was probably just heading home early.

Sam turns to go back inside. “Oh, fuck my life,” he says under his breath. “Fuck fuck fuck.”

The fire door can only be opened from inside, for obvious security-for-a-building-filled-with-minors reasons. And he’d still been half-thinking about how much he likes Bucky’s hair when it’s down, and so he’d let the door close all the way behind him.

“I did the exact same thing,” he hears, and spins around.

“Hey, man,” he says, glad that his little adventure hasn’t been completely useless.

“You can cut through the teacher’s carpark,” Rhodey suggests. “Then you don’t have to go all the way round the building to get back inside.”

Sam nods. “Sure. Good plan.”

He doesn’t move.

Rhodey sighs. “You were looking for me, weren’t you?”

“Just wanted to check in,” Sam says lightly. “See how your night’s going.”

Rhodey leans back against the wall, pulling a pack of cigarettes and a lighter out from the inside of his suit jacket.

The hell? “You don’t smoke,” is all Sam can think of to say.

That just gets him a very dry look, as Rhodey lights up and takes a long, clearly practiced drag.

“Okay, so you smoke,” Sam says, going over and leaning on the wall as well. “Since when?”

“We haven’t been hanging out much this year,” Rhodey points out. Sam’s almost certain he doesn’t mean it as a rebuke, but he can’t help but feel like it’s one anyway.

“Sorry,” he says, not sure what else to say. “I - Bucky, you know.”

He’s not sure if that’s excuse enough - not that he really needs an excuse, not the way he would have if it had been Steve he’d stopped hanging out with. He and Rhodey have always got on well, but they’re not best friends. Sam can’t deny that maybe a small part of that is because Rhodey’s best friend is Tony, who Sam _does_ like, but usually only in small doses.

“Relax, Wilson,” Rhodey says, smiling at him with one side of his mouth, the other side occupied with the dangling cigarette. The first few buttons of his shirt are undone, and Christ, all he needs is a pride flag over his head to look like the poster boy for everything conservatives hate. “We’re good. I’m just - not really in a prom mood, I guess.”

Sam presses his lips together, wondering if he should ask the obvious question. He can’t not, really. “When do you start basic?”

“Not till September. Got the whole summer, free as a bird.”

“You still want to go?” Sam asks, torn between regretting the question and really wanting to know the answer as soon as the words are out of his mouth.

Rhodey falls silent for a few seconds, taking one last drag and then dropping the filter to the floor, grinding it out with the toe of his dress shoe. “Yeah,” he says. After that pause Sam had expected him to sound uncertain, but he doesn’t. Not at all. “I do. It’s just a lot to leave behind. You know?”

Sam’s own worries about leaving school and starting college suddenly seem childlike in the fact of that question, so he just shrugs. “We’ll all miss you,” he says, because saying that is just stating a fact, like saying the sun’s going to rise in the morning.

“I’ll miss you idiots too,” Rhodey says, and Sam hopes he’s not imagining that his voice sounds a little less weighed down. “Come on, let’s go back in. I didn’t tell Maria how much I love that she wore a khaki pantsuit to fucking prom.”

“To be fair, she can pull it off,” Sam points out, leading the way back towards the main entrance.

“That girl's been wearing her own kind of armour ever since I met her,” Rhodey says, almost under his breath. “Course she can.”

As soon as they're back inside, Tony practically jumps on top of Rhodey with a stream of questions and comments, most of which Sam doesn’t even bother trying to process.

“All good,” Rhodey says, swinging his arm round Tony’s shoulders. “C’mon, let’s go see if your girl needs a hand with counting votes or something.”

Tony starts spluttering about how Pepper is definitely not his anything; he doesn’t even seem to notice that Rhodey’s started moving the two of them across the room. 

Rhodey looks back and salutes Sam over the top of Tony's head as he's walking away – not a real military salute, just a quick tap of his fingers to his head – and Sam smiles and makes the same gesture back.

He shakes off the little flash of melancholy that's trying to get inside his head and stands on his tiptoes, trying to spot Bucky. He laughs to himself when he does; they're - well, not exactly dancing, but close enough; they’re with Maria and Helen, all of them going through the motions of that shuffle-and-sway thing that terminally-uncomfortable-at-parties people seem to have on lock.

The three of them look like they’re having a good time, though, which is way more important than any kind of dance skills. Sam’s almost reached them when Pepper borrows the DJ’s microphone to announce that the votes are in for prom king and queen. 

Bucky waves at Sam and pulls him into their little group. Sam wonders if anyone’s paying attention to them right now; he really doubts it, so he leans in and gives Bucky a quick kiss on the cheek. 

Helen and Maria have identical looks on their faces, as though they’re proud parents whose kids have just done something mildly cute. Sam decides to find it nice rather than patronising; it’s prom, after all, and he knows they mean well.

“Shut up,” Bucky mutters to them, with a very reluctant-looking smile on their face. “I want to hear Pepper.”

Sam turns round. Pepper seems as composed as ever up there, even though a whole hall full of probably-tipsy students is staring at her. She clears her throat loudly, and everyone hushes up enough to make her voice ring out clearly. “And the prom queen is - no, Tony, I don’t need a drumroll, but thank you - prom queen is....Sharon Carter, everybody!”

Sam grins, clapping his hands together so hard they hurt. He’d actually voted for Pepper, because he thinks she deserves a hell of a lot more recognition - and kindness - from everyone at school than she gets, but he hadn’t really expected her to win.

Sharon is an excellent choice, and he’s not at all surprised she won when he thinks about it some more. He doubts anyone in their year dislikes her, and she ticks most of the boxes for a good prom queen: athletic without being an asshole about it; nice to everyone, but not a pushover; good at a lot of things but not one of the super-academic types that tend to inspire jealousy. And, well, extremely attractive, which was probably a factor in more than a few people’s minds.

Helen is jumping up and down with joy; Maria’s reaction of clapping while beaming up at Pepper is a bit more sedate, but probably just as enthusiastic.

As Sharon steps up, looking a bit surprised but mostly just very, very happy, Pepper pulls out a crown from her shiny little clutch bag that Sam swears should definitely not be big enough to hold a crown, and places it gently on Sharon’s head.

“Oh my god,” Sam says, nudging Bucky. “Literally everything makes sense now. Pepper is _Hermione.”_

Bucky just looks sideways at Sam, not stopping with their applause for a second. “Because she reads a lot?”

Where’s Nat when you need her, honestly.

“The _bag,”_ Sam says, waving in Pepper’s general direction. “The bag that’s bigger on the inside!” 

“I don’t remember that bit,” Bucky says mildly. 

“It’s a very important plot point in Deathly Hallows!”

Bucky shrugs. “I thought the whole Tardis-bag was a Mary Poppins thing? Are you saying J. K. Rowling was a plagiariser, because -”

“You’re fucking with me,” Sam realises. Maria and Helen are laughing at them both by this point, stopping occasionally to cheer for Sharon, who’s now smiling out at the crowd with a faint little blush on her cheeks. 

Bucky grins. “Maybe a little,” they admit. “It was fun, right?”

Sam rolls his eyes, even as he’s smiling back. “Why the fuck do -”

The rest of his sentence gets cut off by Pepper loudly saying: “And now for the king!”

Which Sam is very grateful for, because he knows exactly how he’d been about to finish that sentence, carried away by the atmosphere of everyone cheering and clapping enough to forget that neither of them have actually said what he was about to let slip out loud yet.

And those three little words are going to be spoken at some point tonight, Sam hopes, but right now doesn’t feel like the best moment.

But there will be a moment. He’s sure of that.

Pepper raises her eyebrows a little as she reads the name on the card, but she looks pleased.

“And our prom king is…”

* * *

The official last dance is announced, and Sam and Bucky end up being too occupied with making fun of the very awkward way Steve is holding Sharon - his hand keeps creeping higher on her back, as if to make sure he doesn’t grope her accidentally - as they dance together as king and queen to think about the fact that the two of them aren’t stepping out onto the floor as a couple.

“Do you think they’ll ever actually get together?” Sam asks Bucky, more curious than anything.

Bucky shakes their head immediately, which just makes Sam even more curious. “No,” they say. “That ship definitely sailed. And I’m not sure it was ever really floating.”

“Look at you and your metaphors,” Sam says, laughing as he sees Sharon make eye contact with Maria and roll her eyes. “God, Steve. I mean, I’m not saying I’m the best at flirting, but I’m smoother than that.”

“Excuse me,” Bucky says. “Are you implying that anyone less than the champion flirter could have landed me? I’m deeply offended, Wilson.”

Sam laughs again. “Well, _Barnes,”_ he says. “I think I should point out that my idea of flirting involved drunkenly asking you if I could pet your hair like a cat, so I feel like your standards are pretty fucking low.”

Bucky doesn’t answer for a second. “Damn. I want to disagree, but that was one of the best nights of my life,” they say, and Sam can see a smile creeping in at one corner of their mouth. “I guess you just got lucky.” Their tone is still just as light as it had been before, and Sam knows that he could answer with another joking comment without breaking the mood at all.

He doesn’t want to, though.

“I did,” he says, as seriously as he knows how, and he’s rewarded by seeing the hint of a smile grow into a full-blown one, as beautiful as all Bucky’s smiles are. “I got so lucky.”

* * *

Things wind down quickly after the last dance; there’s a couple of after-parties that people disappear off to in cabs they’d called earlier. And Sam bets that more than a few people have hotel-room plans that he’d really rather not think about.

Their friend group - plus Clint, who seems to be an honorary member now - hangs around Tony, since he’s the guy who’s putting them all up for the night. It’s pretty clear that they’re going to be the last to leave; Pepper has to stay till the cleaners arrive, as the organiser, and Sam highly doubts that Tony’s going to make a move until she’s safely in a cab.

“Hey, prom king,” Sam says to Steve, because he’s never going to get tired of the bashful way Steve reaches up to touch the crown every few seconds. 

That had been a great moment, when Steve’s name had been called and the entire hall had fallen silent for a second before erupting into cheers. Sam really hopes that this might have convinced Steve once and for all that he’s not just some boring guy who people put up with out of kindness or loyalty, or some shit like that.

He’s not going to hold his breath, or anything, but he can hope.

“I still can’t believe it,” Steve says, completely predictably. If it was anyone else, Sam would be wondering if he was just fishing for compliments, but it’s - well, it’s Steve.

Pepper’s phone beeps before Sam can reply, and she takes it out of her Mary Poppins-slash-Hermione purse to read the message. “Oh no,” she says, in a worryingly high-pitched voice. 

“What’s wrong?” Steve says, sounding like he’s about ready to leap into battle right now. 

_Hero complex,_ Sam thinks but very charitably decides not to say.

“The company that was supposed to be cleaning up cancelled,” she says blankly, staring at her phone like it’s somehow going to start laughing loudly and inform her that it was only a prank, the cleaners are on their way and her perfect prom hasn’t been ruined in the slightest. “Their van broke down,” she continues, sounding personally betrayed by some random vehicle failure that was almost definitely a fluke.

“I’ll call a cleaning crew,” Tony says immediately, looking like his offer makes him on a par with Superman. Sam tries not to laugh at the way Tony looks at Steve, clearly proud that he’d managed to think of a way to help before Steve had even opened his mouth.

“I don’t know,” Pepper says, looking doubtful. “They’d need to get here really fast. There’s a basketball game in here tomorrow morning, the team will be here for practice in a few hours.”

“I know where Stan keeps the keys to his supplies cupboard,” Clint says. “We could just do it ourselves.”

Pepper frowns at that. “I can’t let you stay and clean up. It’s your prom night.”

 _It’s yours too,_ Sam wants to point out. 

Clint shrugs. “Eh. I didn’t really make any after-party plans.”

“Me neither,” Sam says, glancing at Bucky. The two of them had actually talked about staying somewhere together, getting a nice hotel room or something, but Sam hadn’t been able to hide the fact that he felt like that would be too much pressure. So they’d ended up agreeing to just stick together at the dance and then head back with everyone to sleep at Tony’s house.

Bucky rolls their eyes, but they don’t look annoyed. “Sure. If we all pitch in, we’d probably get it done in under an hour.”

Pepper looks like there’s some kind of punchline coming, like they’re all about to shout _fooled you_ and run out of the hall to go get drunk somewhere without her.

“Pepper,” he says firmly. “This was our prom too, and you did an amazing job. Let us help.”

She smiles at him then, a quick, nervous smile that’s gone within a second, and nods. “Right,” she says, putting her phone away. “Thank you all. Clint, Natasha, Tony, if you go to the cupboard and bring back supplies? Ah - Sharon, Maria, could you start sorting out all the cable extensions? The DJ took her equipment already, but the school lent us some extra bits and pieces.”

She looks around, clearly trying to think of how to delegate the million tasks that are probably running through her brain.

“Me and Sam are going to start picking up trash,” Bucky says, glancing at Sam to make sure he isn’t about to protest. Sam nods immediately. Someone has to do it, and it’s not like anything on the floor is actually dirty; it’s mostly just cups and a few loose decorations that got torn up in the dancing.

“Oh, thank you so much,” Pepper says, clearly relieved. “Helen, if you and I finish cleaning up the drinks tables, and then - Steve and James, sorry, Rhodey, maybe you could fold the tables and move them back against the wall?

“We got this,” Tony says, sounding like he’s been tasked with a world-saving mission. “Trust us, okay.”

“I do,” Pepper says, blinking to herself a couple of times before clapping her hands together sharply. “Right, let’s get to work!”

* * *

Sam takes a break from picking squashed plastic cups up and tossing them into the recycling bin Bucky’s following him around with to just look around. At the chaos that’s slowly shrinking down into some kind of order, which is really the opposite of how Sam might have said this night would end if anyone had asked him yesterday.

Nat is stood on Clint’s shoulders, unhooking the streamers from where they’re lining the top of every wall. She isn’t bothering to fold them up neatly, just letting them fall from her hands as she unfastens them, so Clint - especially with the wide skirt on his dress - resembles nothing quite so much as a Christmas tree decorated by an overeager toddler.

He doesn’t look like he minds.

“Not exactly the romantic end to prom night the movies tell you about, is it?” he hears, and he turns to face Bucky.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Sam says, not even trying to stop his smile from taking over his face. “It’s sort of - cathartic, don’t you think? Dismantling the trappings of our last high school celebration, or something like that. I’ll think of a good analogy in a minute.”

Bucky laughs, and Sam can’t sense even a hint of anxiety or fear behind the sound. “You nerd,” they say, soft and fond. “Fuck, I love you.”

“I -” 

Sam has to stop himself before he says anything else, because he’d been preparing himself to reply to the _you nerd_ comment. He hadn’t expected Bucky to say anything else, much less - that.

There’s a moment when Bucky’s expression starts to fall, then Sam takes their hands in his, holding on tight. “I love you,” he says, as quickly as he can. “I love you too, of course I do. I got Redwing dry-cleaned when Sarah spilled hot chocolate on him, okay, that’s definitely a thing you would only do for someone you love.”

He’s talking too fast; he isn’t nervous exactly, just - a little overwhelmed, maybe, and just a bit scared that this moment is somehow too good to be true.

“You’re amazing,” Bucky says, and the words are quiet but they ring true with conviction, and for a second Sam doesn’t know how to answer them without getting way more emotional than he wants to.

“Hey, you’re pretty great yourself,” he says lightly. 

He’s distracted by movement out of the corner of his eye, and looks over to see Helen stealing Steve’s crown with a grin on her face, looking like she doesn’t have a care in the world. Sam doesn’t know which he’s smiling more at, the happy expression on her face or the fake-outraged one on Steve’s.

“I’m glad Steve won,” Sam says, turning back to Bucky. “He deserves it.”

“He does,” Bucky says, before looking down at the floor - which is strewn with bits and pieces of broken decorations, red solo cups dotting the spaces between them. They move a few steps away and bend down, picking something up that Sam can’t quite see.

“What’s that?” Sam asks, coming closer again.

Bucky twists it around in their hands. It’s one of the plaited ribbons that were looped around the drinks table, Sam sees, all silver-gold-blue, and as he watches, Bucky forms a circle with it and ties it in a knot.

Then they reach up and place it carefully on Sam’s head.

“You deserve it too,” they say, smiling as they touch one hand to Sam's cheek, as though they know just how fucking corny they’re being right now.

Of course, they also know full well that Sam has a not-so-secret weakness for cliched romantic gestures. There’s a giant, very ugly stuffed bird sitting in his bedroom that proves that.

“I wouldn’t want to take Steve’s crown away,” Sam says, feeling just a little choked up.

“Alright,” Bucky says easily. “You don’t have to be king. You can be, um. A prince?”

“Prince Samuel,” Sam says in a formal voice. “I like it. And you can be - hey, are there any gender-neutral royal titles?” he asks, thinking out loud. 

Bucky doesn’t answer. They just lean forward and kiss Sam, which - well, maybe that’s its own kind of answer.

“I love you,” they say again, once they’ve drawn back. 

“I love you too,” he says, feeling the words fall from his lips as easily as though they’ve been sharing them with each other every day for months.

Maybe they have, he thinks a moment later. Just not out loud, not until now.

“We’re free!” comes a shriek from the other side of the room, and they look over to see Tony throwing handfuls of confetti into the air. Rhodey is standing nearby with a vacuum cleaner, looking like he’s torn between hitting Tony over the head and bursting into laughter.

The second one wins, as it should - tonight, at least.

“One last dance!” Sharon calls from where she and Maria are packing away all the electrical equipment. It looks like she’s hooked her phone up to one of the speakers that must belong to the school.

The first notes of a song that Sam vaguely recognises drift into the air, echoing a little in the almost-empty hall, and he takes Bucky’s hand without a single glance around to see who’s watching. They’ve never danced together before, but somehow they fall into place with only a few hesitations - Sam steps on the edge of Bucky’s shoe, Bucky’s hair gets in Sam’s face for a moment when he moves forward to put his arms around them, but they still manage to move in harmony after a second or two.

Nothing is perfect, Sam knows that.

But this - 

Surrounded by the music of their friends’ laughter, bits of confetti crunching under their feet, Sam’s ribbon-crown slipping too far over his eyes when he ducks his head -

“This is perfect,” Sam says against Bucky’s skin, knowing that they’ll understand.

“Yeah,” Bucky replies, so quiet that the word fades into the air almost without a sound, and they tighten their arms around Sam.

 _If only this could last forever,_ Sam thinks, and he holds onto this moment with everything in him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I almost don't want to hit post because then it's over!
> 
> I have a tumblr (sororising) and a gmail (sororising) if you would like to keep in touch at all, I will really miss talking to people in the comments so feel free to say hi anytime! Hopefully see some of you again when the sequels start being posted :)
> 
> For now: thank you, and goodbye <3

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Bucky with eyeliner](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8035726) by [Onychophora](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Onychophora/pseuds/Onychophora)




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